College
by jw77
Summary: Modern day AU; Katniss and Peeta meet in college. They both have a past. Awkwardness, followed by romance, followed by awkwardness...
1. When I Step Into the Light

**A/N I used to listen to this album a lot when I was in college. Yes, I know, I'm dating myself by saying that. I don't care. I dug out one of my old CDs the other day and listened to this song in the car on the way to work...and then this plot bunny bit me in the ass, and I couldn't concentrate for the rest of the day.**

**So here you go. Kind of a digression for me, I've never written AU. More chapters to follow, this is kind of just to gauge interest, and I want to finish the 10 Steps before I delve too deeply into this.**

**Plot bunny, leave me alone now? Pretty please?**

_When I step into the light  
My arms are open wide  
When I step into the light  
My eyes searching wildly  
Would you not like to be  
Sitting on top of the world with  
Your legs hanging free  
Would you not like to be ok, ok, ok?_

_When I'm walking by the water_  
_Splish splash me and you takin a bath_  
_When I'm walking by the water_  
_Come up through my toes_  
_To my ankles_  
_To my head_  
_To my soul_  
_And I'm blown away ..._

_[ __  
I can't believe that we would  
Lie in our graves  
Wondering if we had  
Spent our living days well  
I can't believe that we would  
Lie in our graves  
Dreaming of things that we  
Might have been_

_Would you not like to be_  
_I can't believe that you_  
_Would not like to be_  
_Would you not like to be_  
_Ok, ok, ok_

_-DMB, Lie in Our Graves_

COLLEGE

The late August afternoon is hot, the classroom is on the fourth floor of the high-ceilinged, non-air conditioned old building, and by the time I reach the top of the eighth flight of stairs, I know I'm in trouble. I check my watch. _Shit. _2:05. It's a 2:00 class.

I hitch my schoolbag up on my shoulder and survey the row of heavy-looking wooden doors up and down the dim hallway, each with a small, square window above the brass classroom number. To my left, in a shadowed alcove, is the elevator. _Might be a good idea, next time._

410 is only a few paces down, I note with a sigh. I shuffle over to the door and go up on tiptoe to make sure this is the place. I can just about see through the high window.

_Ah, crap_. I catch sight of a group of maybe ten students filling nearly every desk in the tiny classroom. They are eager and smiling, all of them freshmen, none of them late. Most of their faces are shining with sweat despite the open windows, and the fluorescents can't really chase away the dusty gloom.

My eyes find the professor at the front of the room, and I sigh again. She's sitting on a small desk at the front of the classroom, bouncing one leg excitedly up and down and talking in a very animated way. There's no use postponing the inevitable. I bite the inside of my lip and turn the knob, pushing at the door with my shoulder, expecting an old building like this to have doors that stick.

It opens easily, too easily. I'm spilled into the tiny, humid classroom and eleven pairs of eyes are immediately on me. There's a sharp clatter to my right, and I and everyone else turn to see that my bag has caught on the handle of a polished wooden walking stick, one that was obviously propped against the wall near the door, and sent it falling to the floor.

"Oh..." I sputter. I can't meet anyone's eyes as I kneel to pick up the walking stick.

"I'm so-oh god." It slides down and almost clatters to the floor again as I attempt to re-prop it. "I'm sorry."

I turn around, my face hot. I'm the subject of eleven curious stares: a couple of future sorority sisters in the back, already sniggering behind their hands; a fox-faced red-haired girl in the front, fighting back a smile; a blonde, jock-type guy sitting right in front of me with a wry half-grin. That's all I have time to see. "Uhm. Professor Trinket?"

The professor is regarding me with a delighted grin that I can only imagine would look at home on the face of a cat who'd cornered a particularly vulnerable rodent. "That's _Doctor_ Trinket to you, missy." _She's trying to make a joke; I just know it_. "And _yes_, this is your freshman seminar. And _no_, you're not that late, we were just getting started. So you can have a seat." The delighted grin stays on her face during this entire speech.

It takes me a second, because I'm really not accustomed to being talked to like I'm five, but I manage a choked "Okay..." I hear what might be a stifled laugh from the desk in front of me, and I scowl down at its occupant. It's the blonde jock-looking kid; he's resting his chin on his hand, and has his fingers splayed over his lips, clearly trying to hide a wiseass smirk. I feel my face pulling down into its accustomed frown, and I damp down the little flame of anger. _ Go ahead and laugh, asshole. _

I stalk across the room as quickly as I can, making for the only empty desk I can see, by one of the open windows.

I'm almost there when I hear the piercing clatter behind me. The sound of the walking stick sliding down the wall and hitting the floor yet again.

They can't hold it back this time: the entire room dissolves into hilarity, the professor (_Doctor_ Trinket, I correct myself) included.

I plunk into my seat, dropping my bag to the floor and dipping my head down to rummage for my notebook and a pen. I glance across the room and my eyes find the blonde kid by the door.

He's not laughing with the rest of them, but he's got his lips pressed together and his eyes are twinkling at me. I feel another flood of warmth and look away, fixing my eyes onto a point above the white board behind the professor's desk.

When the laughter finally dies down, Doctor Trinket has her eyes fixed on me again, and if it's possible, she's grinning even more widely. "Actually, we were just about to run through a little get-to-know-you exercise."

_Fuck. _There is nothing I hate more than those stupid, go-around-the-room-and-say-your-name games. _ Please let it not be one of those..._

"So we're going to go around the room..."

_Fuck._

"...and you're going to tell us your name, age, hometown, and..." She pauses dramatically, and runs her eyes over each of us in turn. I try to keep from visibly squirming as her gaze settles on me again, and she continues: "...and _one_ thing about yourself that _no one knows_." She brings her hands together in front of her in what is almost a clap.

"Why don't you start, my dear." She's zeroed in on me, and there's absolutely no getting out of this. And it's absolutely terrible.

"Uhm." I have to stop and clear my throat. I glance at my classmates, trying to find sympathy somewhere, anywhere. My eyes are drawn to the door, where the walking stick fell (and this time, no one has picked it up again). And the guy sitting there. He's still not laughing; his eyebrows raised, he looks genuinely curious.

I take a deep breath. "Okay, my name is Kat. I'm twenty. I'm from Portland and..." _Crap_. Something no one knows about me? What is that shit? Like I'm going to tell a bunch of people I don't know anything at all. Which means she's looking for some clever answer, which I'm not going to be able to think of, because she called on me first.

_I hate Doctor Trinket_.

Finally I settle on: "And something that no one knows about me is that...I like to sing." It's lame, but it takes care of business. I settle back into my chair, ready for the grilling of the next victim to begin.

Or so I think. "Oh, lovely, dear! Why don't you sing something for us right now?"

_Did I say I hated her before?_

I honestly don't know where to look. _Is she kidding? _The grin still plastered on her face says she's not. "Oh, I um...I couldn't..."

"Oh please, dear."

"Really...no..." I'm starting to panic.

And then, a voice pipes up from across the room. "Aw, I wouldn't mind a song, really. Only, you shouldn't make it a sing-along. I can't sing worth a damn."

Okay. I have to say, accents have never done much for me. I never got how some actor's voice could be that compelling. When all the girls in my high school were swooning over James McAvoy and his sexy accent, I didn't see the point. It's just a different way of talking, right?

But this voice...belongs to the blonde jock sitting next to the door, and he has now captured the attention of every female in the room with his soft, southern drawl. It's not a heavy or twangy accent, but it's not something we're used to hearing in the northeast, either.

I take a closer look at the guy who has just saved me from major embarrassment: curly blonde hair, square jaw; flat, wiry muscles; thin, but strong. Thin, but he still fills out his jeans and grey Guinness T shirt quite nicely.

And, that voice. _Wow_. I could listen to that all day, and I'm listening now with my mouth gaping, like a fool. I snap my mouth shut and turn my eyes front just as he glances over at me with a sly grin. _You can thank me later_, that grin clearly says.

Because he has Doctor Trinket's full attention as he continues, "I'm Peeta Mellark. Twenty, from Charleston, West Virginia." The accent softens his voice, makes it gentle and kind-sounding. "And something that no one knows about me..."

I can't stop myself from looking back at him. He meets my eyes, and I can see that his are a light, piercing blue. He shoots me that sly, half-smile, and I can't stop my own mouth from pulling up into a grin as he continues, "...is that I'm an excellent cook."

I let my breath out, not aware that I've been holding it.

...

The next hour and a half may be the longest of my life, and when it ends, the temperature in the tiny classroom is approximately 105 degrees. My Secret Powder-Fresh is no match for it, and I'm sweating through my army-green tank. Tendrils of hair have escaped my long braid and the loose strands are frizzing around my ears. The sorority sisters in the back are practically sleeping, the redhead in front has had her head down on the desk for the past 45 minutes, and we've all pretty much had our fill of Freshman Seminar: Current Events From a Pacifist Perspective. This will be my last class on Tuesdays and Fridays until Christmas, and it's going to be hell.

As we're all gathering our notebooks and bags, I stupidly glance again at the blonde by the door. The sorority sisters have the same idea; they are huddled by his desk. The tall leggy blonde girl chatters at him, blocking the doorway as the petite brunette stoops to pick up the wooden walking stick...and hands it to him.

_Holy shit, it's his_. Peeta takes it and nods his thanks, leans on it as he rises from his desk and tucks his notebook into his bag. He looks over at me again, and I look down quickly, stuffing my pen into my jeans pocket. I track him with my peripherals as he leaves the room; only a slight limp is in evidence.

Clearly he's got some sports injury, which necessitates the walking stick. Clearly he was being far more gracious toward my clumsiness than he had to be. Clearly, he's a nice guy.

It makes me simultaneously ashamed of myself and suspicious.

I'm one of the last people to file out of the classroom, carefully avoiding eye contact with Doctor Trinket (who seems to have forgotten about me for now). I'm halfway back to the stairs when I see him again, off in the shadowy alcove at the end of the hall, punching the button to summon the elevator.

_Of course, he can't take the stairs with a bad leg_. I glance at the stairs, then back at him. It doesn't seem right, somehow, for him to be waiting all alone up here while our classmates thunder in a herd down the echoing stairwell. And I'm very guilty about knocking over his walking stick. And...he's really cute.

_But that is totally, totally not the reason I'm doing this_.

Sweat is making his curls stick to the back of his neck, and the T shirt cling to his back. These details do not escape me, but nor do I let them into the front of my mind.

I walk up behind him slowly and clear my throat.

He turns around, and there's that half-smile again. And I swear his eyes light up.

"Hey," I say, and my voice sounds too high and squeaky and totally unlike me. _God, I'm bad at this being-friendly thing_. "Mind if I share your elevator?" Corny as hell.

He raises his eyebrows, but: "Sure, if you don't mind waiting." His accent is soft and lilting. "It took forever on the way up. I think it's about as old as this building."

"Yeah, well." I set my bag down. "I don't really feel like facing eight flights of stairs right now. Especially after_ that_." I incline my head back at the classroom door and let out a kind of half-giggle. _A giggle? What the hell is wrong with me? I don't talk this much, and I don't giggle._

"Neither do I." He's eyeing me curiously, probably wondering why the hell I won't leave him alone. It's a good question.

"Speaking of which..." I bite my lip and look down. "Thanks for bailing me out back there."

He chuckles. "Oh, no worries." He shifts his weight, leaning on the walking stick and shifting a little closer. "She shouldn't have called you out like that. Besides, you weren't any later than I was. I walked in just before you."

"And uhm..." Oh, god. "I'm sorry about..." I gesture lamely at his walking stick.

This time, he laughs out loud, his grin spreading wide across his face, and the entire hallway is now a bit brighter. His eyes crinkle and he dips his head to the side. It's adorable, and I can't look away. "It's okay. There's really no good place for this thing." He's the kind of person, I realize, who looks right into your eyes when he's talking to you. He's got pools of blue that are so deep; he's trapped me. "Besides. You have to admit it was kind of funny."

I smile back, and tip my head to mirror his without realizing it at first. "Yeah...it was..." We both let out a gentle laugh, almost at the same time.

I can smell Old Spice. I really love it. _It's like what Dad used to-_

I shake myself. The hallway suddenly seems too small and too dim, and I shift away from him a little bit, readjusting the strap on my bag and looking away.

He seems to sense my discomfort and leans back a bit, too. He's frowning slightly when I look back up, and I want to turn and run down the stairs.

But the elevator dings and the doors finally creak open, and it would look weird to walk away now, so we both get on the elevator. It's tiny and ancient and the lighting makes everything glow yellow. I feel the floor sag a bit, and I reach out to steady myself against the wall.

Then he touches my arm with his fingertips, and a jolt of warmth goes through my skin. I look up and his eyes meet mine, and we're both silent for a few beats.

Then he smiles, small and warm and easy. "Don't worry," he says. "I think we'll live."

He drops his hand and leans away so more of his weight is on the walking stick; I face forward, nodding as the doors close and the ancient thing begins its descent.

I use my peripherals, and I see him turn his eyes toward me again. I can still feel it, where he touched me. "Do you really like to sing?"

I turn to him, and then quickly away again. "Yeah, I do." My feet shuffle, and I clutch the strap of my bag, fingernails digging into the canvas. "I, uh...couldn't think of a good lie, fast enough."

He laughs softly. "Yeah, me neither."

"So you _can_ cook?"

"Hell yeah, I can."

"Good to know."

This elevator is _slow_. The silence stretches out.

"So...West Virginia, huh?" _ Jesus. What the _fuck? _Can't I do any better than that?_

But unbelievably, he's grinning at me. "Yeah. Ever been?"

I shake my head, smiling. "Nope. So what made you want to come north?"

He sighs. "Probably...the desire to get as far away from my family as possible."

"That'll do it," I say, laughing. Laughing. God, I sound like a dork. "Are you ready for the Maine winter?"

"Fool, please," he drawls as the doors open, finally, onto the ground floor. I turn to him with raised eyebrows, and his voice echoes a bit in the high-ceilinged lobby as he continues, "I'm from the mountains; we get more snow than you do."

I'm laughing again, and it sounds much too loud so I cover my mouth with my hand. We're passing through the double doors that lead out onto the quad when he asks, "So...it's Kat, right?"

"Yeah."

"Is that short for Katherine?"

Crap. I hate this conversation. "No. It's actually a pretty unusual name, so..."

He touches my arm again, and this time, not only do I feel the warmth again, but this time there's a jolt inside my chest. I will myself to calm down, but I still can't meet his eyes. "Well? Now I'm curious," he says.

"Um, it's Katniss."

"No shit!" I look up at this, and he's got such an amazed and pleased look on his face that I can't help but shake my head.

"Yeah..."

"Oh I'm sorry," he says, shaking his head. "Pardon my language, it's just...I know Katniss!"

I just frown at him.

"It's..." He chuckles. "That came out wrong. It's...it's a plant. An edible plant. Grows in marshy areas. Right?"

I feel the smile bloom on my face. "Yeah. God, I'm impressed. Most people don't even know I'm a plant, let alone that I'm edible."

I realize what I've said a moment too late. My face instantly flushes.

Luckily, Peeta is either too slow on the draw or, more likely, too polite to call me out on it. He merely blinks at me a few times, then says, "I did Outward Bound when I was younger. That's...they showed us what to eat...in the woods."

I rush on, "My dad used to say, as long as I could find myself, I'd never starve."

He leans up against the bricks. We're still standing just outside the doors, at the top of a small flight of stairs that lead down to the grassy central quad of USM's Gorham campus. "Your dad sounds like a cool guy."

"Yeah." I study my sandals, my green-painted toenails. "He was." I rush on again. "So you're...Peter?"

"Peeta, actually. With an A."

"Oh. That's an unusual..."

"Yeah, I know," he says with a sigh and an eye roll. "Blame my folks. I usually just let people think I'm saying Peter, to avoid having to explain."

"I know the feeling." I sneak a glance at my watch, and I'm amazed to see that it's only been about 15 minutes since class let out. It feels like I've been talking to Peeta forever.

I like his name. It suits him, somehow. But I don't tell him that. Instead I begin edging away, saying, "Well, I guess I'll-"

"Hey," he says. "I was about to go over to the cafeteria. Would you want to grab a bite with me?"

I freeze. _ Did he just ask me out? _A second later, I'm kicking myself. _Don't be stupid_. I'm not practised at the new-friendship thing. Plus, a guy like this simply has to have a girlfriend already.

"I would but..." I glance at my watch again. "I have to go meet my little sister off the bus."

He nods. "'Kay then, how about another time?"

I smile and manage a nod.

"Then I guess I'll see you around...Katniss." He looks down at his feet and then up again, through his lashes. I have to swallow hard as he says, more quietly, "Do you mind if I call you that? I know you go by Kat, but...I like Katniss. It...it suits you, somehow."

Only my dad calls me Katniss. Called. "Okay...I'll see you Tuesday."

I turn my back and flee, finally. My heart is beating way too fast, and I'm not sure I'm walking straight. I've just shared more personal details with a complete stranger than I have with most of my friends. Especially that old saying of my dad's. Where did that come from? Yeah, I was nervous and embarrassed, but still...

I'm only about ten paces away when my phone starts vibrating in my back pocket. There are only a few people that it could be.

It's a text from Prim. DONT WAIT UP 2NITE SLEEPING OVER RUES BYE

I roll my eyes, click my tongue and press the button to dial her back, stepping off the walkway onto the grass and crossing my arms over my chest as her phone rings.

"Kat!"

"Did you really think you weren't gonna get a call back after that?"

She gives a long, exasperated sigh, as only a 14 year old can. "We're going to see the new James Bond movie at the Nick, and then I'm sleeping over at Rue's. And yes, her parents are going to be there. GOD, Kat."

I try to stifle a smile. "I hope you're not planning to walk all the way back to the West End after the movie."

"Thresh is picking us up." I can practically hear her eyes rolling.

"Isn't that movie rated R?"

"So?"

"Good luck passing for 18." My sister is tiny, slender and blonde; her friend Rue is even smaller. They'd be lucky to get into a PG13 movie unquestioned. But the ticket takers at the Nickelodeon Theater are less than fastidious at age-checking. As in, they don't check.

"Ha ha."

"Can I expect you tomorrow, my little social butterfly?"

"Yeah, but not too early. So if you, like, have a date staying over, don't worry about it..."

"Ha freaking ha." In the year or so I've had the apartment, I've never once had a guy there, and she knows it.

"You should go out," she says, a little more seriously.

"We'll see. Have a good time, okay?"

"Kay. I love you."

"Love you too. Bye."

I'm smiling to myself as I slide the phone back into my pocket and start across the quad. Then I see him.

Peeta Mellark has settled down on one of the benches along the walkway just outside our Freshman Seminar building. He's watching me with that amused half-smile, his piercing blue eyes crinkling up in the corners.

Any other day, any other guy, I'd turn around and walk in the opposite direction. I'd find his interest creepy and weird.

But today, for this guy, I return the smile. My legs carry me across the grass, back onto the walkway, and over to the bench. He watches me the whole way. I don't break eye contact.

And then, I'm standing in front of him.

And the way he's sitting, his jeans are hitched up enough for me to see the tops of his sneakers. To see the athletic sock poking out of one, the right sneaker. Between the left sneaker and the cuff of his jeans, I see some kind of flesh-colored synthetic material. I see, also, that his left leg juts out a bit more into the walkway, like the knee won't bend as much.

The artificial knee. It's not a sports injury. He's lost one leg.

If it's possible, I now feel like even more of a total idiot for knocking over his cane. Twice.

"No sister?" He's trying to catch my eye, but I avoid it, afraid that he's seen that I've seen. That he'll realize I was too dense or unobservant (_or self-absorbed_) to notice before.

I fiddle with the strap of my bag. "Nope. She dumped me for James Bond."

He shakes his head. "So sad when that happens. And you never see it coming, do you?"

I shake my head back.

He inclines his head across the quad, toward the cafeteria. "So, how about that bite to eat?"

I feel my cheeks flush, remembering my slip of the tongue earlier. But I manage a nod.

And so, we go.


	2. When I'm Walking By the Water

**A/N LOL Wow! So...what I *think* I'm hearing from you guys is that you'd like me to continue the story. (Heehee, I'm such a brat.) Thank you for all the recs, favs, follows; they were a bright spot in a very tough week. I must check out this Tumblr thing at some point...what you kids won't think of next.**

When I'm Walking By the Water

"Do you mind if I just stop by my room first?" he asks. We're halfway across the quad, and it's been a quiet walk so far. I'm scuffing my toes along the grass as I walk, something my mother used to harrass me about. It wrecks shoes. "I want to drop off my bag, and I'd like to change my shirt; I don't think they believed in air conditioning in...well, whenever that building was built."

"Not at all; which building is yours?" I haven't been able to meet his eyes again. And my shoes are going to have grass stains. And he's going to change his shirt...and for some reason, this last fact makes me have to swallow a sudden lump in my very dry throat.

"I'm in Robie Andrews; it's right across the way here." He points to a tall brick early-1900s looking building.

That gets my attention. "Oh!" I look up at him and find that he's studying his shoes too. "My friend Gale is an R.A. in that building."

"No kidding," he says, grinning my way, and I look away, pretending to study the brick facade.

"Yeah, we've known each other forever. He was a few years ahead of me in school, but our dads worked together, and..." And what? Do I want to tell this story right now? And why is my dad everywhere today?

And now Peeta's said something, and I've missed it, and he's watching me expectantly. "What?" I say.

But he smiles easily, and repeats, "Which floor?"

"Third floor."

"Oh, I'm on the second." We've reached his building by this time, and this is awkward... "Do you...want to..." And now, he's the one who's blushing.

And I'm the one who rescues him. "I think I'm just going to run upstairs and see if he's around. We're supposed to get together later, and..."

"Okay." He swipes his ID card at the door, hauls it open and lets me lead the way through the small lobby. It may be my imagination, but I think he's frowning as we trudge our way up the stairs; only one flight this time, and I barely notice him leaning on the walking stick at all.

I'm curious about it: his leg. But I kind of feel like it would be rude to ask. So I trot along up the next stairway as he opens the door to his floor. "Hey," he calls, and I turn, and he's smiling at me from the doorway. "Ask him to come along with us."

I bite my lip. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Why not?" He fiddles with the door lock. "Meet you back down here."

I nod and turn to finish climbing the stairs, and now I'm the one who's frowning. _Why not, indeed?_

...

Gale's floor is a boys'-only floor. I realize this as soon as I open the door and I'm greeted with the overwhelming odors of B.O. and beer. There are pizza boxes and fast-food wrappers littering the floor outside several of the rooms, and the booming explosions and random gunfire of an X-Box being played a few doors down.

Unbelievable. Classes started yesterday; these guys have occupied this floor for less than a week. And already it's a sty. I'm guess I'm too used to living with just Prim.

I follow the blasting of guns and the shouts of soldiers and find a door propped open; I push on it and I'm treated to the sight of five or six guys huddled inside a tiny room around a TV screen, two of them holding X-Box controllers and the other four shouting into their ears.

"Dude! Use your parachute."

"Deploy chute, dumbass!"

"No, not-"

One guy dies.

"Aaaaughh." Two of the observers turn away from the screen in disgust, and catch sight of me in the doorway.

"We-ell," one of them says. He's a tall, good-looking, muscle-bound surfer type who might be halfway decent, if not for the disgusting leer in his eye. He slouches over to the doorway, and I take a step backward. "What can we do for _you_?"

I catch a whiff of alcohol on his breath, and I have to fight not to cover my nose. "Could you tell me...I'm looking for Gale. The R.A?"

Surfer Guy's face falls. "Of course you are." He looks behind me, probably to see if I've brought any friends. I take another step back, and he follows me. "What do you want him for? When you could have such a good time...without him."

I'm starting to get nervous, but then a voice pipes up behind him. "Cut it out, Cato." Surfer Cato looks around, grinning at his friend, who positions himself between me and Cato, subtly pushing him back into the room. The friend is a bit smaller, darker and more wiry-looking, but no less intimidating. "Sorry about him. I haven't known him long, but I'm pretty sure he's an asshole."

I laugh at this, just a little, and study my sneakers again.

"Anyway, Gale's not here. He's not on duty until 9 tonight, so I'm not sure we'll see him at all until then. He works weird hours." It's true; between RAing here, working part time at Shaw's Grocery and trying to earn enough credits to graduate in the spring, Gale can be hard to find.

"Okay, well, which room is his?"

The guy points down the hall a bit. "On the left. There's a white board on the door."

I nod. "Thanks," I say, turning down the hall.

"I'm Marvel, by the way." I turn back to face him, and he's jiggling his eyebrows up and down. "And if you're really nice...I might tell you my real name." He sniggers as he ducks back into the X-box room and slams the door behind him.

_Oh...my...god. _I shiver, trying to rid myself of heebie-jeebies.

People are weird.

I leave a note on Gale's door. WE ON FOR EASTERN PROM TONIGHT? CALL IF YES. KAT Gale and I, and our friend Madge, have had a standing appointment on the Eastern Prom every Friday night since Madge and I were juniors in high school. We all grew up on Munjoy Hill in Portland; the Eastern Prom is a public park a few blocks away. There's a playground at the top of a steep, grassy hillside leading down to the harbor; at the bottom of the hill there's a paved walkway, a small marina and the even smaller East End Beach.

The beach is technically closed after dark, but we never let that stop us. And we never do more than just hang out and catch up with one another. But it's basically my only standing social engagement, and Gale and Madge are basically my only friends, besides Prim. So I don't like to miss it.

I don't want to pass Cato and Marvel's door again, so I pad quickly down to the stairwell at the other end of the hallway. I find the second floor deserted; Peeta must still be changing, and I don't know which room is his, and I wouldn't go knocking even if I did know. So I'll have to wait. I turn to the window behind me; there's a grove of maples just outside, the sunlight filtering through and highlighting the leaves that are just starting to go red at their tips.

I smile and absently reach up to pull the hairband off the end of my now-messy braid. I slip the hairband onto my wrist and run my fingers through my hair a few times, shaking it out and trying to smooth out the knots; the humidity in that classroom really wrecked it. I finally smooth it back, capturing the waves and curly tendrils back into my standard braid. Prim calls it my I-don't-give-a-shit braid. I call that about right.

I turn around and there he is...his room is the last one at the end of the hallway, nearest the stairs, farthest from me. He's standing outside his closed door, his hand still on the doorknob, watching me with his mouth slightly open.

I look down at my shoes, and then back up at him. Still looking at me. I hitch my bag up and start down the hallway. Trying to find something to rest my eyes on besides him.

He's changed into a blue shirt. And he doesn't have his walking stick any more. "Hey," I tell him, when I'm close enough. "That's...a good color on you."

He blinks and shakes his head, and smiles easily again, like I've snapped him out of a daydream. "Thanks." I think he's brushed his hair too. "That's a nice...you have really pretty hair." He's blurted it; I can tell by the way he immediately presses his lips together.

I take a deep breath. "Thanks yourself."

...

"So how old's your sister?" he asks me as we wait in line for fries. The line is not long; it's only 4:00 on a Friday, and we practically have the place to ourselves.

"Fourteen."

"That's...a fun age?"

I chuckle, thinking of Prim and her worries over clothes and grades and boys. Normal stuff. "Not really," I say, sitting my tray up on top of the grill to get my paper cup of fries. "Not for most of us." Peeta does the same; his tray already carries a bowl of chicken salad and a grilled cheese sandwich.

I eye his selections. "A little early for dinner, isn't it?"

He smiles, digging his ID out of his back pocket. "One thing you will learn about me very quickly, is that I am always hungry. Four PM, four AM, doesn't matter. I can always..." he trails off, frowning at something over my head, and then his face breaks out into a full-on grin. "Hey Annie!"

He waves his free arm above his head and bellows for Annie again. I turn around and my stomach plummets, because there, about ten yards away, stands just about the cutest little person I've ever seen. Annie looks up and smiles, waving shyly back at Peeta, and I catch the full effect of her smoky dark hair, emerald green eyes and dimples, and the hesitant yet graceful way she's now walking over to us, balancing a tray between both hands.

I knew it. I knew there had to be a girlfriend.

I am so stupid.

Now he's introducing us, and I have to be nice, and there's really no reason I shouldn't be. "Annie, this is...Kat, from freshman seminar. Kat, this is my neighbor Annie from the second floor. We were just there," he says, turning to her. "We must have just missed you..."

Annie nods at me, smiling shyly, and then quickly looks away. I watch her as we find a table and settle in with our food, waiting for Peeta to touch or kiss her, or give any indication that they're a couple...but he doesn't. She doesn't say much and doesn't really meet his eyes, but he talks steadily and calmly to her, and gradually she relaxes enough to start volunteering topics on her own.

There's something...a little off about her. I can't put my finger on it. It's like she's constantly waiting for someone to yell at her; you can see her flinch a little when a group of guys across the room gets a little too rowdy. When that happens, Peeta puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, repeats what he just said, and waits for her response.

I watch him in awe. No, she's not his girlfriend, or someone he's trying to get with. He hasn't even known her for very long. She's just a slightly odd, awkward, damaged person that he's befriended.

Maybe that's what Peeta does...maybe he has a talent for befriending damaged people. It would explain a lot...especially about his interest in me. My heart sinks even further.

I learn a lot during that early-dinner. I learn that Annie and Peeta are both art majors; she specializes in photography, he prefers painting. I learn that he has two older brothers, and that she is an only child. His folks own a bakery back in Charleston; her folks are retired in Falmouth Foreside.

I learn that Peeta and I have a math class in common, Mondays and Wednesdays in Portland.

"Which dorm are you in?" Annie asks.

"Oh, I'm not," I say, and Peeta looks up. "I've got my own apartment, not far from the Portland campus."

"Really?" Annie seems impressed. "By yourself?"

"Well, no. My sister lives with me. Well, on weekends, anyway." I shrug. "I'm hardly ever there, I worked two jobs all last year before I started school, so it's not like I got lonely, really." _Shut up, Katniss._

"But what about your parents?"

I carefully don't look at Peeta, and try not to remember what he said about my dad eariler. "Oh, well...my dad died?" I don't know why it comes out as a question. "And my mom's...not really in the picture. So..." I shrug.

"Oh god." Annie's face falls, and she looks like she's about to cry. "I'm so sorry..."

"It's okay," I say. "It was a long time ago."

Peeta breaks the ensuing silence by announcing he's going to get some ice cream, and invites Annie to go with him. He glances back at me as they walk away toward the soft-serve machine; our eyes lock and he gives me a small smile. I feel my own lips curling up in reply, and I can't help the faint lurch in my stomach.

As he looks away, my phone buzzes in my pocket again, and this time it's Gale. He'll be calling from his room in Robie, as he doesn't own a cell.

I'm grinning as I answer. "What's up, Buttercup?"

He groans. "Catnip. Do not remind me of that beast." Buttercup is my sister's cat; he lives with us because our uncle is allergic. He scratches everyone except Prim. "So where are you? I'm thinking Ripper's, then the Prom. I'm starving."

I smile. "I'm in the caf. Hey..." I watch Peeta and Annie in front of the soft-serve machine, and note how he's talking to her, gently and steadily, and how she's nodding, taking in every word. Like she trusts him.

_These could be friends_. The thought gives me a warm feeling.

"Hey, Prim is off gallivanting downtown tonight, so she's not coming. Do you mind if a couple of friends tag along?"

A pause. "Will I like them?"

"I think so. They're from your building. Second floor."

"Okay." He yawns. "As long as it's not my floor. I get _enough of these assholes already_." He's raised his voice to a shout, and I can tell he's hoping his voice will carry out into the hallway. I think of telling him about Cato and Marvel, then decide to save that story for later. "And Madge is catching a ride with some guy she met at art school. Pick you up in a few."

As I hang up, Peeta and Annie are sitting down again. She's smiling sweetly, and he's holding out an ice cream cone in my direction. It's chocolate and vanilla swirl. "I wasn't sure if you liked chocolate or vanilla so...I got both."

"Thanks," I say, taking the cone. I run my tongue around the base of the ice cream so it won't drip.

Peeta watches, his mouth slightly open again.

"So. Do you guys want to go for a ride?"

...

I call shotgun for the ride to Ripper's in Gale's not-so-glamorous Hyundai; as soon as we're all in the car I slip off my sandals and prop my feet up on the dash, resting my arms on my knees. I run my fingertips along the spines of a few CDs in Gale's center console as he drives; choosing one, I open it and leaf through the booklet.

"Get your stinky feet off my console, Catnip."

"Can it." I dig my toes into the dashboard, the green toe polish sparkling. Gale grits his teeth, squeezes the steering wheel and watches the road as he turns onto Outer Congress St, which will take us into the city.

I can feel Peeta watching me. He's sitting behind Gale, and I feel his eyes on me every second. I concentrate on not looking back there. My face is flushing hot. I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear, and tilt my head so that he's in my peripheral vision as I'm pretending to read the booklet. Yeah. He's definitely watching.

"Is that the new Mumford and Sons?"

I look back at him and, sure enough, his eyes are on me, not the CD.

"Yeah, I was just about to play it." I pop the CD out and feed it into the player.

"Can I see the booklet?"

I hand it to him, then face forward again quickly.

"Huh," he says. "I didn't know anyone bought CDs any more."

Gale frowns, eyeing Peeta through the rear-view. "I'll have you know that when the grid goes down, all your little i-whatsits aren't going to work any more. You'll be begging for my CDs then."

I snort. "Oh, whatever. Next you'll be calling us young whippersnappers, and telling us about back-in-your-day." Gale likes to pass himself off as an old fogie, but he's really only 2 years older than Madge and me.

Peeta and Annie both chuckle in the back. Annie pipes up, "How do you know your CD player will still work?"

Gale twists around in his seat. "Ever hear of batteries?"

We all bust out laughing, and I slap him on the arm. "Watch the road, genius."

Peeta taps me on the shoulder, and I turn to find him smiling warmly at me, holding out the booklet. "Thanks," he says. I take it from him and our fingers brush together; I drop the CD case and have to fumble for it underneath the seat.

There's conversation between Gale, Peeta and Annie for the rest of the drive, but I couldn't tell you what they say.

...

Gale parks along the street across from the park. At this point we are joined by Madge and her art school friend; he screeches up to the curb in a black Camaro with California plates, and Madge jumps out of the passenger side, looking frazzled but happy. "Are you kidding me?" Gale mumbles.

"Everybody, this is Finn," she beams, and I have to stare. If this guy isn't a Calvin Klein model, he damn well should be. But I'm quickly turned off by his parking job (terrible), his greeting of all the "ladies" in the group with a kiss on the hand, and the studied-nonchalant way he remote-locks his Camaro over his shoulder.

I try to roll my eyes at Madge while he has his back turned; normally we'd have a good laugh over a guy who's trying this hard. But she seems fixated on him instead, so I simply shrug and follow everyone into Ripper's, a tiny diner we've been frequenting since we were twelve.

Ripper and Sae greet us from behind the counter, and we all crowd into a booth. I'm crammed in next to the wall behind Madge and Annie; Peeta's on the outside of the opposite bench. I notice that he orders another whole sandwich and a plate of onion rings, which he shares with Annie.

I'm stuck across from Finn, who keeps waggling his eyebrows at me and flexing his muscles while I'm trying to eat my onion rings, making Madge furious and Gale amused. Annie glances at Gale and Finn furtively from time to time, I notice, her face serious; she doesn't seem the type to fall for either Finn's obvious masked-insecurity or Gale's uncertain bravado. I watch as she coolly evaluates them, then turns back to Peeta, who's smiling much more genuinely. I think I like this girl.

I catch up with the two of them; Madge is having fun in her pottery class (obviously) and suffering through her bank-teller job during the day; Gale is back and forth between the dorm, Shaw's and five different classes. I tell them about classes and Prim; that's all I've got.

Peeta may or may not be periodically trying to meet my eyes. I pretend not to notice.

After dinner, we cross the street and make our way down the sidewalk toward the park. As soon as the playground comes into view, we lose Finn.

"Hey! A playground." He grins wickedly at all of us and runs off with a whoop, leaping onto the brightly colored jungle gym and chinning himself up on the highest bar.

"Oh my _god, _Madge." I lift up one side of my mouth in a sneer, and stare at my friend, who's beautiful even in ratty jeans and an old T-shirt from her pottery class; her blonde hair is gathered in a low bun and her face is dreamy as she stares after Finn.

"I know," she sighs. "Isn't he hot?" And before I can say another word, she's skipped off to the playground after him.

"That's..." I start, but she's already too far away to hear me. I point after them, then drop my hand, hopeless. "..._not_ why I was oh-my-godding."

I hear a chuckle behind me, and turn to find that Peeta and I are now alone. Annie is picking her way down the steep slope, her eyes fixed on the water and a slightly absent smile on her lips, and Gale, to my surprise, is following her.

Peeta extends his arm and grins. "Care to share a bench with me, milady?"

I glance around. There is a winding pathway leading down to the marina and beach, but with his leg, that's probably not a good idea. The others probably don't realize his dilemma, because he hides it so well.

I take his arm. It's strong, and warm. "I'd be delighted," I say, grinning right back. There's a bench about ten feet away, meant for parents to watch their kids on the playground. It overlooks the water, and as we sit down, I pause to take in the view.

Portland Harbor is gorgeous in the slanting rays of early-evening sun behind us. The water is stormy-blue and busy with sailboats, ferries and fishing trawlers, the sky darkening and dotted with gulls, the breeze crisp and salt-kissed. The islands way out in the bay are already shadowed with evening. My harbor, my water, my world.

I realize that I haven't yet let go of his arm, when he shifts slightly, muscles flexing as he pushes himself into a more comfortable position. I curl my hand up and pull it away then, the knuckles grazing his forearm.

"Can I tell you something kind of embarrassing?" I look up with a frown, and he's grinning out at the view. "This is the first time I've ever seen the ocean."

My jaw drops. "Shut. Up."

He grins wider. "True. I can't believe it myself, that I missed this...all my life. I just never got around to it. I mean, we used to go to Lake Erie or Niagara Falls in the summer, but...it was nothing like this."

"You _never_?" I can't stop staring. "You never saw the ocean before." I've never seen someone see the ocean for the first time. Especially not someone who's obviously taking such joy in it. "That's it." I slap a hand onto his leg, just above the knee, before I really think about what I'm doing. It's his bad leg, but he doesn't seem to mind that I keep my hand there just a little too long. "We're coming back here at sunrise. Some day. That's how you've got to see it. The sun rise over the water. It's...it's beautiful." I snatch my hand away and look down at the pavement, studying the cracks.

"Oh, I don't know. What I'm looking at right now is pretty darn incredible." I raise my head and he's not looking out at the ocean any more.

He's looking at me.

I can't meet his eyes. I can't. I fold my arms across my chest and stare out at the water, following the progress of a lobster trawler as it hauls traps, going from one buoy to the next in a steady line. Finn is now bounding down the grassy slope to the beach where Annie and Gale have settled on a piece of driftwood, and Madge is following more slowly, picking her way down the hill with arms outstretched for balance. I have to smile at her awkwardness.

"Can I ask you something?" The question is out of my mouth before I've really thought it through, and I feel panic fluttering in my chest. I shouldn't ask him, but...

Hi sighs, then leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Proximal tibial osteosarcoma."

"...What?" He catches me so off-guard that I have to take a second to catch up. Then, I feel all the blood drain from my face as I realize what he's telling me. "Holy shit. Cancer?"

He nods. "A tumor in my shinbone. That's why they had to take my leg."

"Holy _shit_." I'm trying to wrap my head around this. I sit up a little straighter, and angle my body so I'm facing him. "How old were you?"

"I was sixteen."

"Wow. I'm so..." _Sorry_ doesn't seem to cut it.

"Spring of my sophmore year, my baseball team was on its way to the State Championship. We were down to the ninth inning in a really important game, and I managed to hit a single. Really tough pitcher. I knew my team needed the run, so I waited for a bad pitch, and I went for second." He sits up straight again, glances over at me, but I'm just staring at him and I feel like my face is frozen. "I ended up having to slide. I led with my left leg, and...it just broke."

"It just...broke?"

"Yeah. In a couple of places, actually. Apparently the bone had been getting weaker for a while, as the tumor grew. I never knew. I'd been icing the knee after every practice, but I didn't think anything of it. Didn't complain. Didn't want to get cut from the team."

I say the only thing I can think of. "I'm sorry that happened to you. It must have...sucked."

He chuckles again. "Yeah. It did suck."

I stretch my arms out in front of me. "Wow...but you're okay now?"

"Yeah. I'm almost five years out, if you can believe it."

I study my hands in my lap, twisting my fingers together. Suddenly, everything that bothers me seems so trivial. I smile to myself. "You know, that's actually not what I was going to ask you."

"No?" He half-frowns at me, surprised.

"Oh, don't get me wrong. I was going to ask you. I was just planning on being a little bit more..._smooth_ about it." I make this incredibly cheesy, "smoothing" gesture with my hand when I say this, like I'm smoothing a bedsheet or something.

I look out of the corner of my eye, and he's wearing a grin of pure delight. "Oh, I see. You were going to be..." He pauses for effect, then imitates my hand gesture, exaggerating it. "..._smo-o-o-ooth_ about it?"

I am going to be teased about this for a long time to come.

I narrow my eyes at him, but he can't stop grinning. "Yeah. You know, I am capable of being smooth." I face forward again, my eyes on the blue horizon, a smile playing about my lips. "Just...not right now."

He laughs aloud at this, and I glance at him again; his face is literally beaming as he shakes his head. The sound of his laughter makes me warm, it makes me almost glow. I want to hear this sound again. I want to be the one who makes him do this. I want…

_I want. _

For the first time in a long time, maybe in forever, I want.

I may be in serious trouble here.

"So what were you going to ask?"

_Shit_. "Um...it's not important."

He stares at me. "Um. Yeah it is."

"Well..." God, I'm going to sound like an idiot. "I-was-going-to-ask-if-you-have-a-girlfriend." There's a bit of a silence, and I fill it as best I can. "I mean, I know I...it's none of my...but I just wondered..."

"No," he says, resting his elbows on his knees again. "I don't." He catches my eye, and this time I don't look away. "Do _you_ have-"

"No."

He faces the sea again, nodding. "Good to know."

...

Gale offers everyone a ride back, so after Finn thunders off in his muscle car ("What's _he_ compensating for?" Gale mutters, making both Madge and Annie snort behind their hands), we all pile in. Annie surprises me again by saying "Shotgun!" on the way to the car. Gale opens the passenger door for her very sweetly, and she's beaming as she slides in.

"No fair," I complain, though I'm secretly pleased for Annie. "Why don't I get the door opened for me, _Gale_?"

"Suck it up, Buttercup," Gale says, rounding the car and folding his tall frame into the driver's seat.

I stick my tongue out at him, and I'm reaching for the door handle when another hand gets there first. Peeta. He smiles at me as he opens the door, gesturing me in with his other hand.

Goddamn it. He is smooth.

Peeta stands there holding the door open while Madge and I pile into the back.

"It's good to know there are some gentlemen left in the world," Madge is saying as Peeta settles himself beside me. I'd make a wiseass comment myself, but for the few blocks it takes to get to Madge's house, I am squeezed in the middle of a tiny backseat, the entire length of my left thigh flush against his right.

I can feel the tiny twitches of his muscles as he shifts in his seat and moves to roll down the window, and I feel the heat coming off of him. My hand rests on my knee and his hand is inches away; my pinkie stretches out toward his before I can think to pull it back. We don't look at each other.

After we drop off Madge, I slide over to occupy her vacant seat. As soon as I'm settled in, I glance over at Peeta and we share a nervous smile before we both turn forward again.

I don't meet his eye again, in fact, until I'm at the door to my apartment building and Gale's car is pulling away. I swivel my head around and sure enough, Peeta's watching me through the car's back window. I freeze, my key halfway to the lock. I watch him grow smaller as the car retreats, his gaze intense and unwavering and just the slightest bit...hungry.

I watch until the car is out of view, and then I let myself into my apartment and don't sleep. All. Night. Long.


	3. Would You Not Like to Be?

**A/N Here's a long, juicy chapter for my readers. Who loves ya? ;) BTW, You may remember Peeta's painting from a description in Catching Fire; that particular painting (from the "train car" scene) always intrigued me, I can't really say why. I thought about the reasons why he might choose to paint that particular image. Enjoy...**

Would You Not Like to Be?

At first, I can't sleep because what happened today was so unexpected and exciting. I never meet guys. Not guys worth knowing, anyway. It's just not part of my life. I have Prim, I have Gale and Madge, I had work and now I have school. Everyone is in their place.

I lie in the silence of my empty apartment and stare at the white fiberboard squares on the ceiling, and try not to think of his eyes watching me from across the quad, from across the cafeteria table, from the back window of Gale's car. I ball my fists into the sheets and try not to feel our fingers brushing, his hand on my arm, my hand on his leg...

_Oh Jesus_. My eyes fly open as I crash back down from the edge of sleep. _ Did I really touch his leg_? My face flames as I remember. Not only that...I smiled. I giggled. I _flirted_. Katniss Everdeen does not flirt.

What the hell came over me? I go back over the day again in my head, trying to piece together how my second day of college went so far off course. It was that damn seminar, that professor really threw me, and then being all apologetic with Peeta later, and finding him so sweet and funny and...

"Aaaauuuggh." A low moan escapes me and I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to blot out the memory of me, of Katniss Everdeen, actually asking a guy she just met whether he had a girlfriend. Just...asking. After he'd just confessed something pretty serious, I responded by...what?

By making myself seem pathetic and desperate, that's what.

I writhe under the sheets, trying to make the memories go away, trying to spin them into something good again, but it's not happening. Everywhere I turn, I see Kat throwing herself at a guy she just met, and I end up not able to sleep because I'm humiliated.

I probably weirded him out. He's going to stay as far as possible from me and my friends from now on. He doesn't need a mess like me in his life. He'll start going out with Annie, and I'll see him in classes but it'll be okay because...because...

I'm drifting toward sleep again, still clutching at my sheets with sweaty hands. They relax slowly as I remember braiding my hair in the hallway, turning away from the window and seeing him there, watching me.

The look on his face.

I'll see him again.

...

"Hellloooooo-ooooooo." A singsong voice, followed by the slam of my apartment door, jolts me awake.

As always upon waking, I'm completely askew; my head and one arm are hanging over the edge of the mattress, my other arm stuffed under the pillow, the sheets tangled around my legs. (When I sleep over at Madge's, she always complains that she has to completely re-make her bed afterward.) The few hours of sleep I managed to get are not going to serve me well today; my eyes feel hot and cracked, my tongue thick and furry.

"Sleeping Beauuuuuty..." The small, sweet voice is moving down the hallway, and I sit up too quickly, and my hair gets caught in my mouth. I spit it out and shake my head, trying to unstick a few strands from my chin.

"Are you decent?" she pipes from just behind my door. I groan as my sister turns the knob and pokes her blonde head into my room.

"What do you think?" I growl, but I'm not able to keep the smile from sneaking onto my face. My little sis has her hair in a ponytail, looking rumpled in last night's jeans and my Jimmy Page and the Black Crows tee shirt. The one I had to stop wearing when I was younger than her. I see what might be the remnants of mascara around her eyes, and I narrow my own at her. "Late night?"

She rolls her eyes. "No. Thresh picked us up after the movie, we went home. We woke up this morning, he dropped me off here, he drove Rue to gymnastics. End of story. What did you think?." She saunters in and plops down on my bed, grabbing one of Buttercup's jingly play-balls from under the desk and tossing it in the air. She catches it, and tosses it up again as I fall back against my pillows. It grazes the ceiling, and she catches it in one hand. "What about you? _Late night_?"

I groan, closing my eyes. "Not even. Gale had to be back in Gorham for RA duty at 9. I'm sure I was home before your movie got out."

I hear her catch the ball again, and she's quiet for a minute before tossing it onto the bed, narrowly missing my head.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

She stops halfway out the door; I've only got my eyes cracked open but I can see her smirk. "To make you breakfast. You look like death."

I stumble out of bed and follow her into the hall. "Some sister you are."

"Hey, I _am_ cooking."

"True. But what are you cooking?"

"Eggs Benedict. There's a carton of eggs in the fridge that expires today."

"Huh. Better eat 'em."

"That's what I'm sayin'." I hear the smile in her voice as we move in opposite directions down the hallway, me toward the bathroom, her toward the tiny kitchen. I stare at myself in the toothpaste-spattered mirror. I do look like death.

I hear her searching for a pan in the cupboard as I splash water on my face, and I have to smile again at the homey sound of it. I missed this. Just Prim and me. We're a team.

We don't need her.

The refrigerator door closes and I hear her bare feet padding down the hall as I'm about to step into the shower. "Hey," she says, poking her head around the door again. "We're invited over to the Hawthorne's tonight, for a barbecue."

"How do you know?"

"We stopped at Shaw's on the way here. Gale was working."

"Oh." I frown. "They didn't get enough of barbecuing on Monday?" Gale's family always throws a huge Labor Day shindig, with all the Munjoy neighbors invited. They've done it since Gale and I were babies, since before our dads were lost, before his mom's new boyfriend, before any of our brothers or sisters were born. Before my mom went away.

It usually ends with rowdiness and surly, beer-sloshing chest thumping and illegal fireworks out in the street and the cops getting called over something or other, but hey. It's fun while it lasts.

She shrugs. "They have tons of food left over. Gale said if they leave it for one more day, it'll be no good to eat any more."

"Oh, that's encouraging."

She throws a hand towel at me, and I duck into the shower.

...

After a good breakfast and an afternoon spent with Prim, I feel human again. Almost myself again. Seminar and Peeta and my hand on his leg, his eyes on me while mine are turned to the darkening water, are a million miles away. I'm myself again: someone who worked and took care of her sister, who now goes to school and takes care of...well, now, more hangs out with her sister than takes care of her. Prim is almost as tall as me now (no great feat to reach 5'4", but still), and she can hold her own. And more.

I'll just forget the silliness from yesterday. I'm sure he has. I'm mortified to picture the look he'd get on his face if he knew how much I'm thinking about this, how his blue eyes with those light, almost translucent lashes would-

"Kat!"

I blink. "Huh?"

"Jesus. I've been trying to get your attention for five minutes now." Gale is frowning; he's plucked a Mr. Pibb from the cooler at his feet, and is tossing it from hand to hand. "Do...you want...a drink?"

I scowl at him from my perch at the top of the stairs, overlooking his family's back yard. His mom owns the building; she and the three younger kids live on the first floor, and two other families rent the upper floors. It's pretty much understood that the Hawthornes have the run of the back yard. It sits on the crest of the Hill and there's a great view from the top floor; you can see the rooftops leading clear down to the sea. From the steps, though, all you can see is the large, if scrubby, yard, with its dilapidated swingset in one corner and fire pit in the other.

"Yes."

He considers me for a moment, then tosses the shaken-up can at me; my hands dart up to grab it.

"Gale!"

"What?" Mock-innocence; his eyebrows arched, palms raised to the violet sky. "The lady wants a drink, I give her a drink."

I smirk, and turn to his brother, who's sidled up beside him with a goofy grin. "Rory," I say, batting my eyelashes at him. "Could you grab me a non-shaken-up beverage, please?"

"Oh, no," Gale says, grabbing his brother's wrist. "You're not using your feminine wiles on my brother."

"Kat doesn't have feminine wiles," says a full, throaty voice behind me, and I turn to see Gale's mother, the tall, dark Hazelle, pushing through the screen door onto the porch, followed by Prim, carrying a plate of hamburger patties. Hazelle settles down beside me and puts her arm around my shoulder, and I settle against her. "She doesn't need them. Gale honey, you'd better go watch the grill."

Prim hands him the plate, and Gale stalks off to the grill, muttering something about _Work, work, work_. Hazelle chuckles and throws her other arm around Prim, who has settled down on her other side. The two younger kids, Vick and Posy, ages four and two, come tearing out of the house and down the stairs, flinging themselves across the yard and onto the swingset as if they're shot from a cannon. They're Gale's half-brother and sister, technically, but the term is never used.

Hazelle chuckles harder, watching them. Then she turns to us. "How are my girls?" We both smile at her. "How was your first week of classes, Kat?"

I shrug. "Just two days. But...I like it." A tiny grin creeps onto my face. "All except my Seminar. It's this stupid thing they make all freshmen take, it's supposed to...I don't know. Teach critical thinking, or whatever." I study my hands. "But it's cool. I like it."

"Good. It's...good for you." I look up, and her smile has grown tense. "You've always worked too hard. It's good for you to just-"

"_Mom_," a small voice wails from across the yard. There's a tiny figure down in the grass, holding her knee and rocking, and Hazelle is off like a shot, with just a small groan of fatigue.

"She's right, you know." Prim slides across the step and rests her head on my shoulder, wisps of blonde tickling my ear. I rub the ear into her hair, and she giggles, burrowing deeper in until she's got her arm wrapped around mine, her head against my neck. I think of all the nights we slept pressed together, terrified of any sound. I shiver. "It's good for you," she continues, "To just...be in school now. You know."

I shift around, leaning against the porch railing with my other shoulder. "I'm actually thinking of picking up a shift at Shaw's again, just for the-"

"You shouldn't," she says. Her voice is small, soft. Sad. "You should just...be in school. Have fun. Meet guys." She pokes me in the ribs with her elbow, and I shove her away playfully, grabbing her waist and tickling until she's giggling again.

I think of telling her about Peeta. _ I already did... _I almost do, and then I catch Gale staring at the two of us from across the yard, his eyes shadowed in twilight gloom. His face brightens when he catches my eye, but I can't forget what I saw there a moment ago.

Longing.

An old ache opens up in my chest.

I'll forget it. I'm sure he has, already. I'll just be cool.

Because, really. It was nothing.

...

My math class meets at 11 on Monday morning, in a building that's two blocks from my apartment. I don't even have to take the shuttle into Gorham, I can just roll out of bed and walk to class in five minutes. There should be no way I could be late to this class.

But here's what happens. I get a call from the admin office at Prim's school, asking about a tuition check we'd given them the week before she started there. I spend 15 minutes on the phone with them, then 20 minutes on the phone with our bank, then 15 more minutes on the phone with the school. And by the time I walk out the door, it's 5 minutes before class is supposed to start, and I know without a doubt that I'll be late again.

Part of me is glad, as I walk briskly down the busy sidewalk toward campus, that I don't have more time to think about this class, and who will also be there. I already spent more time dressing this morning than I usually do, picking out a white blouse with elaborate, colorful embroidery and a newer pair of jeans. Prim talked me into the shirt at a street fair last summer; it's nicer than I'd normally wear just to class. I tell myself I am wearing this outfit that I know is flattering (because Madge told me) only because I want to, and for no other reason. I've never worried about impressing people.

I don't think I've ever had anyone that I particularly felt like impressing.

I rush into Corthell, the math and science building, right at 11, and rush up the stairs, but by the time I reach 216 there's a stitch in my side and the professor's voice is already droning behind the closed door.

_Damn. Not again._

I bite my lip and open the door as slowly as I can, poking my head in. Luckily it looks like the professor has just started talking; he's still in the process of writing his name on the white board up front. And yes, I was right, his voice is kind of drone-y as he says, "My name is Dr. B. T. Alvarez; you can call me either Dr. Alvarez or just B. T..." _Not a chance, dude_. His back is stil turned to us, though, and he hasn't noticed me yet.

Glancing around, I see that my classmates occupy a series of two-seater tables, nearly all of which are full except...

The table directly in front of me is occupied by a grinning Peeta, who's removing his backpack from the chair next to him. He catches my eye, looks down at the now-empty chair and then back up at me, eyebrows raised.

_He saved me a seat... _I am relieved, but a tiny part of me is inexplicably annoyed; whether at myself for being late again, or at him for knowing I'd be late again.

Nevertheless, my stomach swoops around inside my ribcage as I slide into the chair. _Thank you, _I mouth silently at Peeta. As I try to extract my notebook from my bag as silently as possible, Peeta bends down over his own paper, still grinning.

A few seconds later, he slides his notebook across the table, and I see two lines of neat block letters addressed to me.

_You seem to have a talent for being late_.

I scowl sidelong at him, but my face pulls up into a grin to match his almost against my will, and I grab the notebook to scribble back. My handwriting is much messier than his, but I'm sure he'll get the drift.

_You seem to have a talent for brownnosing_.

I slide the notebook toward him without looking, but I hear him muffling a snort into his fist before he begins scribbling again.

The notebook grazes my elbow when he pushes it back my way, and I slide my hand sideways to grab it, and my hand brushes his, but I pretend not to notice, and hastily reach up to tuck a stray couple of hairs behind my ear. I glance down a second later.

_Touche, madam. Katniss: 1 Peeta: 0_

This time it's my turn to shake with silent laughter, briefly closing my eyes. When I open them again, he's pulled the notebook back over to his side, and we both have to scramble to copy down several "review" equations with which Alvarez has already filled the white board.

Twenty minutes, two sheets of notebook paper, and one spinning head later, I'm thinking another note-break might be in order, because "B.T." is turning out to be really, really hard to follow. I take a deep breath, turn to a fresh page, and scribble across the top.

_Sheesh. So much for 'basics,' huh?_

I use my elbow to push the note his way. It's returned promptly.

_Really. It's gonna be a rough few months. What are you in for?_

_Pre-req for accounting majors. Unfortunately. You?_

I watch him chew on the end of his pen before writing his reply.

_Math minor_.

I frown at him after reading this, but he just shrugs and takes the notebook back to write,

_Well I've gotta have something to fall back on in case this whole 'art' thing doesn't happen for me_.

I tap my own pen against my chin thoughtfully before replying,

_...said Peeta's parents?_

I watch his response; he presses his lips together, closes his eyes and fights back a laugh. It makes me warm, and I feel like I could watch this all day. He shields the notebook with his arm as he writes his answer, then watches my face as I read it.

_Nailed it. Katniss: 2 Peeta: 0_

I quirk my eyebrow at him, and his smile turns shy suddenly, and he studies the desk, biting his lip. But I make him laugh aloud with my final message:

_WINNING. Duh._

He disguises the laugh with a cough, and we lay off of the notes for a while, because hey, there's a class going on.

But I'm definitely, definitely in trouble here.

...

"So what are you doing for lunch?"

I knew this question was coming, and I'm prepared. We're standing outside Corthell; it's another hot, sunny day, and I'm in the process of pulling my hair out of its unruly braid and into a simple ponytail. I have my hairband between my teeth as I reply, "Oh, I was just gonna go home..."

He leans forward. "What's that?"

I grab the band and tie my hair back. "I said I was just going to go home, I live not too far away and I don't really have a meal plan, so..."

"Oh, that's okay, I'll put you on my card. Do you have class at 1?"

I sigh. "Yeah, but, really..."

He smiles, drawing his eyebrows together in a pleading look. "Come on. Please?"

_Damnit. _"Um...okay. Yeah."

"Cool." He looks genuinely pleased, and I'm really wondering how it's possible that one look, one smile, one pair of blue eyes can make Kat feel so warm and happy. Because 'warm' and 'happy' are two words that do not describe Kat.

"I owe you a couple of lunches at this point, though."

He waves his hand vaguely, before letting it rest on my elbow for a brief moment. "Oh, come on. Nobody's counting." By the time he takes his hand away I'm embarrassingly breathless, so I just follow him to the Portland caf without a word. But in all seriousness, it does make me uncomfortable to be on the hook for something like this. I've been basically self-sufficient for so long, the idea of dependence rankles.

Something tells me Peeta wouldn't understand this; subtle things about him, like grooming (good), clothes (unassuming, yet obviously good quality), and the fact that he's paying out-of-state tuition, all conspire to tell me that, while nice, he's never wanted for much in his life.

On the other hand, I think, suddenly noticing his slight limp as I follow him through the lunch line, he's definitely had his own struggles. He downplays it so much, it's easy to forget about his leg. But I find myself wondering just how he's coping, as I watch the heavy way that foot falls behind the other, good one. He doesn't have his walking stick today, and it's a big campus.

Maybe I should just give him a break and let him buy me lunch.

We eat today with Annie and another guy I haven't met, named Mitch. He's as lively and entertaining to be around as Peeta, and Annie proves to have a surprisingly dry and observant sense of humor as well, once you get her to open up a bit. I find myself laughing my way through lunch.

I find myself laughing more than I have in years.

Numerous people drop by the table to chat with Peeta; it's amazing how he's managed to surround himself with friends in so short a time, but he has something meaningful to say to all of them. I fall quiet, but find myself subtly keeping track of Peeta with my eyes, watching him laugh at every joke, eat onion rings and waffles with syrup, lean down to put his ID back into his bag...

Or maybe I'm not as subtle as I thought. I look up at one point to find Annie eyeing me from across the table, her brow wrinkled thoughtfully as she glances from me to Peeta, then back again.

_Ah, crap_. I spend the rest of the meal studying my tray.

But Peeta touches my arm again once we're back out in the sunlight. "See you tomorrow," he says, his voice soft and his eyes still smiling, his hand lingering in the crook of my elbow even as he breaks away toward the shuttle bus. "Don't be late," he calls over his shoulder, and I smile gently, even though he can't see.

Yeah. My next two classes are a blur.

...

I'm not late to seminar the next day.

But I do go to his room with him, after.

We'd ended up sitting across the stifling-hot classroom from one another again, because today the sorority sisters had positioned themselves next to him before I got there. He gave me a helpless shrug when I walked in, and I couldn't help scowling at the pretty girls as I pushed my way to the old seat by the window.

I was annoyed at myself for two reasons: rushing over here for nothing. And wearing a skirt.

I never wear skirts.

It's a swishy, flowy green skirt, and Prim made me buy it too. And now I was kicking myself for it.

But. I felt his eyes on me more and more as the hour dragged on, and when I finally gave in an looked across the room at him, he gave me a small smile and quickly looked down at his desk. And...was he actually blushing?

Anyway. After class, we decided to go grab a bite together again, since I didn't have to worry about meeting my sister this time. He needed to stop in his room again.

And this time, I followed him up.

We didn't really discuss it, and I didn't really even think about it, because our conversation continued right up until this point, right now: Peeta is fumbling around with his room key and I am shifting from foot to foot, not knowing where to look. And damn glad the hallway is empty.

He finally slips the key into the lock and pushes the door open, and I kind of linger in the doorway, unsure what to do.

"Come on in," he calls. I step into the surprisingly tiny room and he continues, "Help yourself to a drink if you want one. It was hot up there today."

I step over to the mini-fridge and squat down, pulling it open. Sodas in the door, beer on the shelf. "You drink?" I ask him without turning around. Trying to make it sound casual.

"A bit," he says, leaning down by the bed, rummaging for something underneath. He comes up with a book and tucks it into his bag. "I don't make a habit of it, though. Too much capacity for doing something stupid." He grins at me, and I look away. "You don't?" he guesses.

"No." I don't elaborate. I grab a soda from the door and crack it open, gazing around Peeta's dorm room.

It's painfully tidy, and there is only one bed. The walls, and some of the ceiling, are covered with artwork: pencil, ink, watercolor, wire sculpture, you name it. It's all amazing. Really, really amazing. The images leap at me, faces and colors and life. Clearly, all done by him. "A single room?" is all I can think to say.

"Yeah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck, not meeting my eyes. "Just lucky, I guess."

It doesn't occur to me until much, much later (like, midnight) that Peeta might have been assigned a single room because of his 'disability.' It doesn't occur to me because...I don't think of him that way. At all. So all I say in the moment is, "Yeah, that was lucky..."

But then I'm distracted by something on the opposite wall, just above his desk, and I frown, advancing toward it until I'm directly in front of his chair. "Peeta."

"Yeah?"

"Peeta, Peeta, Peeta."

He pauses. Then, "Yeah, yeah, yeah?"

"What is that?" I'm pointing to a triangular flag just above his desk. It may be the only wall decoration in the room not created by Peeta.

"That..." He trails off, coming to join me by the desk and folding his arms in front of him. "That is a Yankees penant."

I close my eyes and breathe in an out, very deeply, through my nose. Trying to un-see the pinstripes, and failing. I peek over at him. "Has anyone else seen this?"

He frowns. "A few people, but..."

"You know that can't stay here?"

His mouth drops open. "Now, hold on. I've followed the New York Yankees since I was a little kid, and-"

I hold my hand up, fighting back a smile. "I'm going to let it stand for now, since I don't really follow basball. But...you do understand you're in New England, right?"

"Oh, that's very generous of you. I'd like to know why I can't..."

I stop him again. "Next time we get together with Gale, I'm going to have him take you aside and explain to you the exact nature of the Red Sox - Yankees rivalry. Until then..." I touch his shoulder and give it a squeeze, and a warm smile is my reward.

And just like that, I've lost my train of thought.

"Until then?" he prompts.

But now I'm distracted again. By one of his watercolors. It's in my eyeline, hanging just by his bedside, and I walk slowly around him. He follows me with just his eyes. I don't realize I'm reaching my hand out to touch it until I almost have; I pull my hand back and just stare instead.

"That's my favorite one," he says from behind me.

"It's...beautiful."

"Thanks."

"Did you do this?" I ask.

"I did all these."

The painting in front of me is a startling close-up of a few drops of water, about to fall from a crack in a stone ceiling supported by some kind of half-rotted wooden beam. It doesn't sound like much, but it looks...real. I can see every grain in the wood, every sheen of dim sunlight on wet stone.

And...the water. It's real. The drops of water slipping down through the cracks in the stone: they look like if I touched them, my fingers would come away wet. I can practically smell the mustiness of the wet wood and stone. I can see the weak, filtered light prisming through the drops, the heart of a rainbow in each one. I can feel the fat raindrops, about to let go and hit bottom.

"When did you do this one?"

"Last year...but I got the idea long ago." I turn, nod at him to continue. "Out in the woods behind my parents' house, there's an entrance to an old abandoned mine. The doorway and some of the support beams are still there, but the mine beyond is mostly collapsed. My brothers and I used to play out there-"

"In an abandoned mine?"

He chuckles. "Yeah, I know. Damn lucky we didn't die. Anyway, this one time, I was about twelve, I guess. My brothers had stopped going out there years ago, but I still went sometimes, just to draw by myself. I got caught out there during a rainstorm, and I had to sit in that mine entrance for hours. It was like a cave, almost. I fell asleep against the wall at one point and I...I had a dream."

We're both staring at the painting now, and there's something strange in the air. Something eerie.

"I can't remember the dream. I never could. But I remember exactly how it made me feel. I felt...ultimate sorrow, and ultimate joy. At the same time." He frowns at me suddenly, helpless to explain, trying anyway. "I felt like...in the dream, there was a cave too. And in the cave...I had something that I'd always wanted. Just, desperately, _wanted_. And I finally had it, but the fact of my having it also meant that I couldn't keep it. I had to let it go, very soon. So in that moment, I was really happy, but all the while knowing that I would be really sad, very soon." He shakes his head. "And I had a clear thought. It was a weird thing for a twelve year old to think, but I thought, 'That's life, right there.' And I looked up...and I saw the water dripping from the ceiling. And that's how I remember it."

He gestures toward the painting. "I did this...right after I got my acceptance letter to come here. It just seemed like the right time to paint it, finally."

I'm staring at him, and I can't move. As he's been talking, he's caught me so that I've gone inside him, in the cave and inside his dream, and I've felt that same sorrow and desperate joy. And it makes no sense, and I can't think of anything to say. So, as usual, I say something totally inappropriate. "You're..." I stop myself, clear my throat.

"Huh?" He leans closer.

"You're good." I shake my head. "A good...you're a good person." I'm looking everywhere but at him.

He scoffs, and also looks away. "You don't really know me."

"I know what I see." I catch his eye, and his usually clear expression is tinged with disbelief and doubt.

"You don't see..." he starts, and then abruptly backs up until he's sitting on the edge of his bed. His false leg bumps the floor awkwardly. "You don't know..." I wait for him to tell me what I don't know, breathless with my boldness, with the sudden change in mood, terrified of what he'll tell me. "When you asked me before, if I had a girlfriend?" He's looking at the floor. _Oh god. I knew it. Here it comes. I am so stupid... _"I don't now, but...I did, until about a month ago."

I let out my breath. My heart is pounding, my blood flooding back in relief.

He continues, "We were together since...before I got sick. She stuck with me. She..." He bites his lip, shakes his head. "She was right there, through everything. A lot of girls would have bailed. She stayed, through the treatment, the surgery. She was there when I only weighed 100 pounds. When I lost my hair. When I stopped talking to my family. She never left me." He shakes his head again, a little harder.

I stand still in shock, trying to picture the very robustly healthy young man before me at only 100 pounds, and failing.

"And I just...broke up with her. After all those years. After all I...owed to her."

"Why?" It's a whisper, and it's flown out of my mouth before I even knew what I wanted to ask. "Why did you?"

He looks up at me then, right into my eyes. "I didn't love her."

A shiver runs through me, right to my bones.

But he looks away again, clearly disgusted with himself. "Still think I'm a good person?"

I take a few steps, so I'm right in front of him. I wait until he's looking at me again, and then I begin. "So you're telling me that the worst thing you've ever done, the very worst, was to break up with a girl that you didn't love, in order to avoid a painful long-distance relationship and breakup?"

That stops him cold. And he's actually smiling a little when he replies, "Well. When you put it like that..."

"...It doesn't seem bad at all?" I'm smiling too, and the weird, eerie, somber mood is broken. "Because it's not. You've got nothing on most of us."

"Hope you're not including yourself in that list. Seems to me you take care of your little sister just like a mom would." My eyes go round; I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. "I can tell by the way you talk about her. You're raising her all by yourself, Katniss. It takes a good sort of person to do that."

I turn away, cutting him off and moving quickly across the room. I sip my soda, forgotten in my hand until now, just for something to do. I finally echo his words from earlier. "Don't say that. You don't know me."

"I know enough to-"

"You don't. Know me."

He frowns. "Okay. Try me. I told you mine. You tell me yours."

I blink rapidly. What am I doing? What are we doing, here? He's got me in some kind of trap. He's pinned me with his eyes, kind, honest, genuine...all the things I don't trust.

He'll see.

"Okay," I say, my breath coming in little gasps. It's been really, really nice knowing him. "Try this one. My mother has been in prison for the past two years." My voice is trembling, and I want to stop but I can't. "And I have never visited her." I stare at him, he stares back. "Not once."

I take a deep, shaky breath, and echo him again. "Still think I'm a good person?"

He gazes at me for a long moment, mouth open, just as he looked at me from down the hall that first day.

And then he does something completely unexpected.

He pushes himself off of the bed and walks straight at me. He doesn't stop until he's touching me, until his arms are around me and he's pulled me into a firm, warm hug.

My hands kind of flutter out to the sides, and finally settle lightly up around the sides of his waist as he pulls me closer. One side of my face is buried in his shirt, and it smells so, so good that I never want to leave.

His arms are warm, and his breath tickles my scalp as he buries his mouth in my hair.

I can't...I can't breathe.

"I think..." He sighs into my hair, and I feel another bone-deep shiver, and I hope he can't hear my heart pounding. And I have to finally admit to myself that I want this boy. I really, really want him. I've forgotten that I've asked him a question, until he answers it. "I think you have your reasons. And they're no one else's business, and you don't have to explain yourself. And no one should make you feel bad about it."

He plants a soft kiss in my hair, and my chin trembles. With a final squeeze, he pulls away, leaving me frozen. He picks up his bag and shrugs it over his shoulder. "How about a bite to eat?"

Bite to eat. Yeah.


	4. How Can I Turn Away?

**A/N I'm so excited that people are into this story. You guys have no idea. I revel in every single review, so, you know. Keep them coming! I've had some questions about backstories...patience, gentle readers. All will be revealed.**

4. How Can I Turn Away?

Just like that, I have a group.

It's Peeta's fault. People gather around him like he's the Pied Piper. Our Friday night hangout, once just reserved for Gale, Madge, Prim and me, grows to 9 people; in addition to Peeta and Annie, there is the redhead from our seminar class, Diana. She was paired with Peeta for group work one day during class, and after that, there she was, a fixture on Friday nights and in the dining hall. The four of us join Gale and Peeta's friend Mitch, who lives downtown and also has a car (a hilarious old Lincoln that he calls his 'old lady car'); Gale picks up Prim from the bus stop on the way through town, and we all meet Madge and Finn for dinner.

We used to fit into a single booth at Ripper's, with room to spare; now, we take up two tables pushed together. And...I like everyone. I never like people, but I like _these_ people. We're a little rowdy, which is hard to get used to; but, everywhere I turn, there is a friend. It's new.

Diana is quiet, but she smiles easily and is whip-smart and fun. And Annie has turned into a good friend; I spend almost as much time in her room as I do in Peeta's, after classes. And I have to say, I've visited both rooms quite a bit. People are always popping in and out of Peeta's; he's on first-name terms with everyone on his floor and most of Gale's, too. Even Marvel made an appearance during the second week of classes, barging into the room to borrow something and stopping short at the sight of me cross-legged on the bed, fiddling with Peeta's Ipod.

The look on his face made my own face flame red. I wish people wouldn't assume things. Just because we hang out, Peeta and I, does not mean there's anything going on. Really, we barely touch.

I've taken to eating in the dining hall with everyone, a few times a week. I'm regularly on the last shuttle of the night, going back to Portland and my empty apartment.

Sometimes it gets too busy for me in Peeta's room, but Annie's room is always quiet. She loves classical music and has very tasteful photographs on her walls, and things are always very neat. She's wryly funny when you get her going, and quite observant, but there are times when you just...lose her. She'll drift off in the middle of a sentence, staring at nothing.

I haven't been able to get much out of her, about her own life. Her parents seem to have more than enough resources, but as far as I can tell, they're rather distant. Annie gets white-knuckled when she starts talking about them, so I don't bring it up, and she doesn't ask me questions either. It's a quiet, cautious friendship. But I like her. We normally hang out on Tuesday afternoons after my seminar, lounging around on her bed, reading and talking, and laughing as the second-floor RA, Johanna, bellows at the crowd in Peeta's room to _Keep it the hell down, it's the Quiet Floor, assholes._

We all look forward to Friday evenings, maybe for different reasons. Diana has taken to riding into Portland with Mitch, and Annie, Peeta and I always ride with Gale. By unspoken agreement, Annie sits in front. Sometimes she and Gale talk quietly; more often, she gazes out the window at the leaves, which have by now begun to bloom into a riot of oranges, yellows and reds. Gale respects when she doesn't want to talk. I can tell he hasn't quite figured her out yet, but...I guess I'm happy they're friends.

Once we pick up Prim, I usually move over into the middle of the back seat so she can have the window. Because I'm a nice sister. Not because I want to sit next to Peeta.

Madge and Finn still show up together on Fridays, but according to Madge, it was apparent after a few days' acquaintance that they wouldn't be romantically involved. "He's just...too much," she explained, frowning, while I laughed at her behind my hand.

It's true. He does come off as too much, at first. But after a week or two, he cut back on the bravado and inappropriate gestures (well, a little bit), and he actually turned out to be a decent guy. I don't completely know his story, and I'm sure we'll hear an explanation of the California plates sooner or later. But for now, I'm content to enjoy the antics of the surprisingly-nice manchild that is Finn Odair.

...

One Friday evening at Ripper's, Finn slides a handful of what seem to be concert tickets across the table at me and Annie; Peeta, sitting next to him, cranes his head to see what they are. I grab one and my mouth falls open, then spreads into a grin as Finn says, "Arctic Monkeys, State Theater, October 4th."

I bounce in my seat, then count the pile; eight tickets. "Finn." I'm grinning so hard my face hurts. Peeta is watching me, his head tilted to the side and his expression puzzled as he feeds himself fries like they're on a conveyor belt. "This is amazing."

"I know."

"This is one of my favorite groups."

"I know."

"But this show is next week. And it's sold out. How did you get these?"

He raises his eyebrows and strokes his chin. "I've got valuable connections in this town. I could tell you more...but then I'd have to kill you."

"He works at WCYY, and they've been giving the tickets out as a promotion," says Annie. She's so soft-spoken you wouldn't think you'd be able to hear her in this crowd, but Finn zeroes in on her immediately. I turn, and she's smiling calmly at him, not intimidated in the least, her green eyes meeting his steadily.

"True," he says, nodding, his voice as soft as hers, probably unconsciously. "And you never forget a thing, do you?"

She merely goes on smiling.

"Yeah, I got them from work." He kind of shakes himself, then turns to me again. "They bought too many, and now they have to unload the seats to make sure the show is full next week. And you can't tell them you got these from me. It's supposed to be publicity for the station; they specifically told me not to just give them out to my friends."

"Oh, it's okay, Finn. We can pretend to not be your friends." He kicks me under the table, but his attention is back on Annie again. She's picking at her salad, simply moving it about her plate, but I don't miss the way her eyes flick up to study Finn, and then quickly down again, so fast that you wouldn't catch it if you didn't know to look.

Wow. So Annie has a thing for...Finn? Two more polar opposites, I cannot imagine. I catch Peeta's eye across the table, and I see that he's noticed it too, smiling softly between Annie and me. I look down quickly.

Finn clears his throat, gathers up three tickets and slides them down to the end of the table. "Hey, did you guys see these?" he shouts to Gale, Mitch and Diana. "We're all going. Thursday." He turns to Prim. "Except you, Ducky." He reaches for her hand, and I slap his away; he shakes it and grimaces like he's really hurt. "It's an 18-plus show, sorry."

"What?" Prim's head pops up; she's been having a super-secret conference with Madge all during dinner, and Madge pops up too, grinning. "Oh, that's okay," she says vaguely, catching sight of the tickets as they're distributed around. "I don't really like them much."

"What are you two gabbing about down there?" I ask.

"Something _very_ serious," Madge assures me, a twinkle in her eye.

Prim sighs and turns to me. "What do you think, Kat? Are you _still_ Team Jacob, or did you come over to Team Edward after the last movie, like a sane person would?"

I just stare at her, and all of my neighbors erupt into muffled laughter. "How about Team I-don't-give-a-shit? Is that an option?"

Prim snorts in disgust as the laughter around me escalates. I sneak a glance at Peeta, and he's leaning over his plate of fries, chortling into his hand.

"How could you not give a shit?" Prim asks.

"I'm not fourteen. Sorry."

"Okay," Madge says. "But you'd better have an opinion soon. You're gonna have a houseful of fourteen-year-olds tomorrow, who give more than a shit about Edward Cullen."

I bury my face in my hands; I'd completely forgotten. "Prim," I say, looking up. "Please tell me you guys are not still doing the _Twilight_-fest."

Prim's face falls. "Ohmygod, you promised! You promised I could. We have to catch up on all the movies before the new one comes out!"

I look to Madge, open-mouthed, but she just shrugs and shakes her head. I narrow my eyes at her for encouraging this. "Our living room is not that big. And you're watching_...all _those movies? And how am I supposed to feed seven people tomorrow?"

Prim grabs my hand. "I've only got four people coming. And we've got it all worked out. We're getting pizza, and if we each go in on it a little bit-"

"Oh, you don't have to do that," a voice pipes up across from me. A gentle, softly-accented voice. I look up and he locks eyes with me. "Homemade pizza is my specialty. I'll cook for your party."

I sit there in shock and panic, while beside me, Prim lets out a squeal that's so high-pitched I'm surprised our ears can register. "You will? You really will? Oh Peeta, thank you thank you thank you-"

What the hell is happening, here?

"Hold on." I put a hand on her shoulder. "Just hold on a second." Her face falls, and she slumps in her seat a bit, and I see the disappointment on her face. _There she goes again: Kat, ruining everything. _I shake my head and try to pretend it doesn't hurt, that I've made my sister look like that, and I turn to Peeta, who's got the cutest, most hopeful expression on his face. "We can't let you do that."

He shakes his head. "You'd be doing me a favor, actually. I've gotta flex my cooking muscles again, see if they still work after a month here." His smile softens. "I can get a ride over with Mitch. Right, Mitch?" He turns, and Mitch looks up, startled. "You're going to be around Gorham tomorrow morning, right? Can I get a ride over to Kat's place?"

Mitch's dark skin manages to turn a dusky beet-red, and stammers out that he guesses he can. I frown; doesn't Mitch live in town, not far from Finn? Then I catch sight of Diana, sitting next to Mitch with her own face as red as her hair; she's ducking her head and he leans over to whisper something to her. Oh. _Oh. _She definitely lives in the dorms over in Gorham, now that I think about it. And Mitch is...going to be there. With her.

Wow. What else have I missed, within this little group? Exactly how blind am I?

"So what do you think?" Peeta's leaning over the table, smiling up through his eyelashes, and between that and Prim's excited clutching of my arm, I really have no choice.

I nod. "Okay..."

Prim and Peeta lean together to hold an excited conference about ingredients and cooking implements, and I sit back, defeated, letting my gaze wander over the table, watching Madge attacking her mozzarella sticks in the corner, Annie and Finn pretending not to stare at one another, Mitch and Diana leaning together and smiling.

And Gale, frowning at us from the far end of the table, his eyes sliding back and forth between Peeta, Prim...and me.

I look down at my hands.

I try not to be completely terrified by the idea that, somehow, the boy that I have a secret crush on is coming over to my apartment tomorrow to cook pizza for my sister and four of her screaming, squealing friends.

Gale has to be back in Gorham early that night, so we all pile into his car after we leave Ripper's: Annie in the front, and Peeta, Madge, Prim and me in the back. Peeta's on my left, Madge is on my right, and Prim is in my lap, just until we get to Madge's. I wrap my arms around her waist; she and Madge continue to discuss all things _Twilight-_related, and I roll my eyes and rest my head back against the seat.

I think wistfully of the beach down the hill; there aren't going to be many more nights warm enough to hang out down there...

"Arctic Monkeys, huh?" I look to my left to find Peeta's head resting against the seat right next to mine.

Really close.

I roll my head away in what I hope is a casual manner, studying the ceiling, the view out the windshield, Prim's hair, anything but him. "Yeah. You know them?"

He shakes his head. "Nope."

I look back at him. "Not at all?" He shakes his head again, smiling. "God, you're so sheltered."

"You'll have to play some for me before next week." We've been steadily sharing music whenever we get together; I've introduced him to metal and alt-punk, he's played me his indie and folk-rock. (I've put a moratorium on country music. Indefinitely.) We listen to music while we study; it's what we do. We call it the Music Exchange program.

I nod, my mouth suddenly very dry, our heads really close. "Bring your Ipod speakers tomorrow, we'll have another. You know. Exchange." I have to look away, then. Because, really. Who could be expected to think clearly? With Peeta looking at them like that.

We pull up outside Madge's house, and she gathers her purse from the floor of the car; Prim shifts her weight, getting ready to slide over into Madge's seat. Peeta leans closer and says, just low enough for me to hear and no one else, "I like our exchanges."

Gale taps on the brakes, making the car jump forward just as Madge is about to open her door, and we are all jostled, and I slide so close to Peeta that our shoulders bump and the end of my braid brushes his arm.

"Damnit, Gale," Madge mutters, and Prim giggles, steadying herself against Annie's headrest, and my body flushes hot all over and I'm having a horrible time catching my breath, because now I literally cannot look away from the boy next to me. The one with the smile in his eyes.

Madge opens her door and Gale lets up on the brakes again, snickering at Madge in the rear-view.

"Jesus! What the fuck…" Madge growls at him.

"Me, too," I say, low enough so only Peeta can hear me.

"What's the matter, sugar-pie?" Gale only calls Madge by a sweet nickname when he's really trying to rile her up.

"Annie, pull the e-brake for me, would you?" Madge has gone whiny.

Annie keeps her face forward, and I can hear the small smile in her voice: "I don't have a license, sorry, Madge. I'm not sure which one the e-brake is."

I really hope he can't hear my heart pounding. It's throbbing so loud in my chest and arms and legs and face that I'm sure you could hear it from across the street.

Gale claps a hand onto Annie's shoulder and barks out a laugh. "Kat, have I told you how much I really love your friends?" I tear my eyes away from Peeta's finally and face forward; I find Gale looking for me in the rear-view now, and I'm partially hidden behind Prim's shoulder, which is good, because I'm pretty sure my skin is flushed enough that he'd notice.

He catches sight of me, and I see his eyes flicking quickly back and forth between me and Peeta as he lets his foot off the brake again.

I'm not entirely sure it was intentional, this time.

Madge, who had been about to set her foot on the ground, groans in frustration.

"Oh my _god,_ Gale," says Prim, and she lifts herself off my lap and pulls back on the e-brake lever herself. "There you go, Madge darling."

"Why thank you, ducky." Prim smiles sweetly at the old endearment, and sticks her tongue out at Gale as Madge exits the vehicle and she's able to slide over into the window seat.

"Bye! I think I'll walk home next time…" Madge calls, waving sarcastically as Gale takes the brake off and we pull away from the curb. Gale doesn't respond. He's still watching me, his eyebrows raised.

I look down at my hands; they are curled into loose fists, the nails bitten low.

I cannot, absolutely cannot look up.

Peeta doesn't speak again, but lets his hand fall loosely to his side, the knuckles grazing my leg. He keeps his hand there until we get to my apartment, a warm solid weight against my mid-thigh, and it's all I can do to keep the muscles from twitching.

I finally shift as the car slows in front of our place, and he moves his hand, and I carefully don't look at him. He slides over into Prim's seat after we've gotten out, and rolls the window down.

"I'll see you ladies tomorrow?"

Prim starts right in with her effusive "Yes, oh thank you so much, I can't wait…" and I nod and quickly turn away, only looking back as the car begins to pull away.

"Bye Gale!" I call, and he raises his hand in return, not looking away from the road. I can't read his expression.

I lock eyes with Peeta and mouth _Bye_, but no sound comes out, and he answers me with a smile.

….

We buzz Peeta into our building at 10 the next morning, and Prim runs down the stairs to meet him. I hear their chatter on the stairs, then in the hallway, and I grip my mug of coffee a little tighter and hook my feet together under the chair. We've spent the morning cleaning, and the place looks all right. Not fancy, but all right.

I smooth my hands down over my shirt: a simple white button-down, a little nicer than I'd normally wear on a Saturday. I smooth my hair: worn down, free from its braid for today.

Today, I guess I_ do _give a shit.

Prim bursts back through the door, a grocery bag dangling from each hand, and Peeta follows, carrying two bags of his own plus a Dunkin Donuts box under one arm. I set my coffee down and run over to take one of the bags and the box from him; he smiles gratefully, and I look everywhere but at him as I set the stuff on the kitchen counter.

"How much stuff did you get?" I frown at the rest of the bags, which Prim has dropped on the floor.

Peeta sets his bag on the table and shrugs off his backpack, and I motion for him to hook it over the chair, as I've done with mine. "Oh, you know," he says, running a hand through his hair and letting his eyes wander, taking in our living space. "Just enough to…is that your kitchen?"

I laugh aloud as he gapes at our mini-kitchen. It's a four-by-eight section of tile bordered by a narrow fridge, an olive green oven with uneven burner coils and a tiny sink. There's a minimum of counter space, and no room for a table; we have our "kitchen" table next to the entryway, on the carpet, and it only seats two. "I told you there wasn't much to it…"

"I know, but…" He frowns at me. "How do you cook anything here?"

"Easy! We don't," Prim giggles, and digs into the donut box, pulling out a chocolate glazed. Her phone chimes from across the room, and she takes off like a shot, grabbing it from the couch and hurrying off to her room.

"She's right," I say, starting to open bags and put away what I can. The flour and Fleischman's yeast I leave on the counter, but I put away the ice cream, veggies and pepperoni and tomatoes. God, he really got a lot of stuff. "We tend to keep it really simple. Sandwiches, pasta…the occasional frozen lasagna."

"My god," he breathes. "That is tragic."

I half-grin at him and duck my head; I still don't want to meet his eye, for fear of the flushing and heart-pounding and whatnot. "Well, it was a choice between a full kitchen or a second bedroom. We'd had enough of sharing a room, growing up. So we went for it." I shrug. I ball up the shopping bags in one hand and stuff them in the recycling. "We're going to pay you back for this, by the way. This is ridiculous."

He waves me off, again. "No, you're not. I told you, you're doing me a favor. I miss cooking."

I frown at him. "Weirdo."

He chuckles at me. "Hey, can I use your washroom?"

"Yeah, down the hall to your left."

He disappears down the hall and I spend the next five minutes trying to get comfortable in my own home. I sit down at the table and pop right back up again, pace around the living room, close the curtains and open them again, fiddle with the books on the shelf. Finally I grab my coffee and chug the rest of it in two gulps, chasing it with a chocolate-coconut doughnut.

Finally I get tired of waiting and wander down the hallway, only to find him standing there outside my bedroom door, staring at the one picture I don't want to talk about.

It's the only photograph of my family, all together, that we own. It's the four of us: me, Prim, Mom and Dad, sitting on the deck of Dad's old boat, the _Mocking Jay_. It's a gorgeous day in late September, just like this one. It's about six months before he died.

Prim is five, and she's sitting on Mom's lap. They are like clones: blonde and blue-eyed with creamy, smooth skin and delicate-boned, sweet faces. Mom is smiling the way she used to, when Dad was around: like nothing mattered except us. The four of us. She's leaning in toward me, and Prim is giggling at someone off-camera. My sister's silky hair is in two pigtails, and my heart hurts a little to see that again.

I'm eleven, and I'm sitting between Mom and Dad, and he has his arm around me. If I close my eyes I can still feel it, the warmth of his strong arm against the thin cotton of my tee shirt, the way my hair was pulling out of its braid in the sea breeze and whipping against his face, how it made him chuckle as he brushed the dark brown strands away from his mouth. You can see his hand still lingering near his face, in this photo.

I'm smiling up at Dad like he's the only one there. Like he's the only one, anywhere.

"Hey," I say. I don't like the feeling of someone else, seeing this.

Peeta turns to me, all gentle blue eyes, hands stuffed in his pockets. "You look a lot like your mom."

I frown. "Most people say I look like Dad." My dad had Passamaquoddy blood, and I've always been proud that he passed it on to me in my smooth olive skin and dark hair. Only my eyes, light grey, don't fit the Native American profile, but they're his too.

I have my father's blood.

He shakes his head. "Well, your coloring, yes. Definitely. But your face...see?" He brushes his fingers over our faces, just inches from the picture, looking at us intently. I look too...and suddenly, I _do_ see. Mom and I have the same high cheekbones, the same small pointed chin, and even the same smile, the corners of our mouths tucking up into dimples, the bottom lip puckered out slightly.

Of course Peeta, an artist, would see that.

I lean back against the wall, folding my arms across my chest. Peeta has turned back to the photo, smiling. "You were a cute kid," he says.

I don't like it. I don't like that I look like her, and I don't like that Peeta saw it so easily.

"I was eleven when he died," I say, shocking myself. Shocking him; he turns around, his smile falling. I can't meet his eyes, so I look at the floor instead, and I stupidly keep talking because I don't want any more observations from him today. "He was a lobsterman. That was his boat. He and Gale's dad used to work together." I clear my throat, which is tight and sore now. "They did okay, not great, but okay. It's a hard job. But we were..." I shuffle my feet, scrutinizing the carpet between my sneakers. "This one morning, it was a Sunday? They went out. And they were laying traps, and...my dad's hand got tangled in the trawl line. And he got pulled overboard and under the water."

Silence, and I won't look at the expression on his face, and I can't stop talking even though I want to. I've very seldom told this story.

"Gale's dad jumped in after him, and managed to cut him free from the line. But when they came back up, the boat had drifted away and...they couldn't reach it and...it was really early in the season, so the water was really cold and...they both died."

There's no more to tell. I press my lips together and look up, and his eyes blaze into mine, and I feel it like a punch in the gut.

"What happened then?" he whispers.

"My mom..." I have to stop and swallow a lump. "She just lost it. She couldn't...handle it. She started taking these pills." I look down again. "Her doctor gave them to her. She started taking them every day. And then she got another doctor, and more pills. And then she started taking...other stuff."

I don't use the word 'drugs,' when I talk about my mother. I don't say, 'My mother is a drug addict.' I say_ stuff_. My mother takes _stuff_. My mother went out to get her _stuff_. My mother is...

"Anyway." I shrug. "She was there less and less. And even when she was there...she wasn't really there." I look up and he nods slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. "I took care of Prim more and more. We don't have much family, and what we do have is pretty useless. The neighbors did what they could, and Gale and his mom became like a second family. But...let's just say, I learned how to frequent the St. Mary's food pantry, before I got old enough to work."

He moves closer, but I stiffen and lean away. "When Prim was in fifth grade, one of her school guidance counselors caught wind of our 'situation,' and...she lost us." I have to stop and swallow a lump again. "My mom lost custody of us. We were taken away. We had to go live with our uncle in North Deering. He..." I drift off. How to explain Uncle Hamish?

"Was he...did he treat you all right?" I hear his voice catch and I look up, and he's looking down at me so intensely...

"Yeah, no, it's..." I'll have to just come out with it. "He's a drunk." I raise an eyebrow at him, and he grins with absolutely no humor behind it.

"Oh."

"Yeah. So instead of him taking care of us..."

"...You ended up taking care of him, too?" he finishes, and I nod. "How old were you?"

"Sixteen. So," I say, wanting this story to be over now as much as I had wanted it back then. "The year I graduated high school, my mom was caught trying to steal...stuff...from a hospital pharmacy. She showed up for her first hearing wasted, and the judge found out...and so, that was that. She went to prison. And a year later, I'd saved up enough money to move out of Hamish's and get a place of my own. And a year after that..." I shrug again. "Here I am. Insurance money from Dad is putting me through USM and Prim through private school. But she's still with Hamish most of the time, because her school is close to where he lives. I hate that she has to be there so much, but honestly, it could be worse..."

"Peeta!" Prim bursts through her bedroom door, startling us both. "Let's cook, the movie fest starts at 2." She skips down the hallway, oblivious to the fact that she's just interrupted us talking about her.

I look after her as she breezes by us, her silky hair rippling down her back. I glance at Peeta, but he's still looking at me with that intense concentration. Very quickly he steps closer to me and runs his thumb down the outside of my arm; the touch reverberates in waves all over my body and I bite the inside of my cheek.

"Thanks," he whispers, and follows Prim into the kitchen area. "So. Prim. The first thing we have to do is find two large bowls, a cutting board, and some saran wrap."

I follow Peeta after I've caught my breath. I don't know what just happened, or what he was thanking me for. For telling him about myself? It's not like I did him a favor. He probably just feels bad for me now.

I'm digging one of my Accounting textbooks out of my bag when Prim pipes up, "So Peeta. Have you seen _Twilight_ yet?"

I laugh out loud. I can't help it. Peeta's expression is so helpless and panicked, and Prim looks so eager, bouncing on her toes. "I'm just...gonna get some reading done, while you two talk about...that." He throws me a wide-eyed glare which clearly says_ I hate you_, and I muffle my laughter into my hand.

As they work, my sister treats Peeta to an abbreviated synopsis of all 4 books in the series, the movie adaptations, and why the whole franchise is so awesome. He suffers in silence. Once they have the dough rising, Prim's phone rings again and she runs off to answer it, slamming her door. Peeta wanders over to the table, rubbing his forehead with his palm. "Didn't you promise to play me some music today?"

"Oh yeah." He sets up his speakers while I find the appropriate songs on my phone. I feel him watching me while I plug it in and start playing Arctic Monkeys for him, but when I look up, he's turned away already, setting up another cutting board and cleaning a knife to prep the vegetables.

I catch him tapping his foot to a few songs. Next, he plays me some Neutral Milk Hotel, and I admit that I like it, strange as it is. I play him some Queens of the Stone Age, and when I start softly singing along to_ Hanging Tree _because it's my favorite, I catch him staring at me, the knife forgotten behind him.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says. "That just...may be my favorite song, now." I roll my eyes, but he says, "If I turn around and pretend to ignore you, will you keep singing?"

I shake my head, so he plays me some songs by The Decemberists. And I have to admit, I really love them. We are sitting at the table together and talking about the music when Prim emerges from the bedroom. We look up and both lean away from each other, like we've been caught doing something other than talking, and Prim looks quickly between the two of us.

Peeta jumps up. "Hey, our dough is almost ready, so let's get some cookie sheets out..."

I take a deep breath and turn the music up. And I don't get another word of Accounting read.

...

The five of them are crowded into our tiny living room: Prim and Rue, Amanda and Leevy and Julia. Three on the sofa, two on pillows on the floor. All of them squealing.

The pizza has been eaten and the girls are halfway through the second movie; Peeta has stacked the dishes and pans in the sink, to be washed later by me, at my insistence. He glances at the screen and calls to the girls as he passes by, "Man, that guy takes his shirt off a lot, doesn't he?" It prompts a flurry of giggles and whispers and an evil look from me as he sits down opposite me at the table, and pretends to turn his attention to his book.

I, in turn, pretend to read mine.

Talking or music-listening is impossible with the din from the TV. So we try to ignore the screams and foot-stomping of the girls every time something vaguely romantic happens on the screen, and we make a valiant effort to do homework. I'm leaning my head on my left hand and resting my right on the table.

I can't help but notice that, though his head is bent over his own book, Peeta's hand creeps closer and closer to mine. He does it subtly; he shifts in his chair and moves his fingers a few inches toward mine, he turns a page and moves a few more inches. I glance over at the girls every minute or so, to make certain they're oblivious, but they only have eyes for the screen.

Our hands are only about an inch away from one another, and my fingers start to twitch.

"Awwwwwww..." comes a loud chorus from the couch, and the music swells.

I glance up at Peeta and then quickly down again; his eyes are on his book, but he's biting his lower lip really hard.

Closer. Closer, and I will myself not to move, not to snatch my hand back.

"That's so sweet!" Prim gushes, and I hear Rue muffling her squeal into a pillow.

Our fingertips touch.

And it's like an electric current is running through my arm. My mouth pops open, and I can't look away from the spot where our forefingers and middle fingers are touching on the tabletop. Just the lightest touch.

"I can't stand it! You guys, the new movie is going to be so good." I think that's Amanda.

His forefinger moves to carress lightly against mine. My breath is coming fast, and my tongue darts out to wet my lips.

"I know! We have to go to the midnight premiere. Promise me," says Rue.

Peeta curls his fingers and pushes them under mine in one smooth movement. He hesitates, then threads his fingers through the spaces between mine, so that my fingertips are splayed over his knuckles.

I look up to find him watching me; his head is still lowered so that he's looking at me through his eyelashes again. As soon as our eyes meet, my hand convulses and I'm squeezing his hand, my fingernails digging into his skin in a way that has to be painful; but, he only raises his eyebrows at me and squeezes my hand back.

And then he smiles; just a small, gentle smile, but it sends a jolt of warmth all through me.

"You brought cookies, right?" It's Prim, and she's clambering up from the floor and passing right by us on the way to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "Where are they?"

"Next to the fridge," Rue calls.

Peeta and I spring back, breaking the contact between us, and I snap a glance over to Prim, but she hasn't noticed. She hasn't looked our way, and now she's sitting back down, plate of cookies in hand, and they are all gushing once more over some fool thing. And I don't know exactly what I'm so worked up about. But my heart is pounding and when I look back at Peeta-

Oh. My. God. He is still smiling, and I bolt up from the table. I feel sure my entire body is flushed, and it's ridiculous. It's completely ludicrous, but my hand darts out again and grabs his, and this time I feel how warm and solid he is, and I give one final glance to the girls in front of the TV, and I tug on his hand so that he'll get up from the table, so that he'll follow me as I quickly walk down the hall.

I'm trembling as I pull him into my bedroom and shut the door behind us, as softly as possible so the girls won't hear. I turn around and he's so close to me. My heart is pounding. He threads his fingers through my hair and pulls me to him and our lips crash together, too clumsy and eager, and we pull apart, both laughing softly at the absurdity of this.

It's ridiculous, really, but-

But then he runs his hands down the length of my arms, skimming my fingertips before trailing them back up again and resting them on the back of my neck. I cup his elbows in my palms and snake my way up his back until my hands are hooked behind his shoulders.

This time when we come together it's more deliberate, our lips molding together gently, then insistently, then hungrily, soft little bites. He licks my bottom lip and we let our tongues touch, just the tips, just like our fingertips touched, and I dig my nails into his shoulders.

I feel my eyes roll back and flutter closed as he trails kisses down to my chin, my jaw, the line of my throat and the hollow on top of my collarbone, sucking the skin in between his teeth-

"Kat!"

Shit. It's Prim. Right outside my door.

"Kat, do we have any more soda?"

I let out a ragged gasp and tear myself away from him; he's wearing a dazed expression, like he's not quite sure if he's dreaming.

I'm not quite sure, myself.

"I'll be right...back." I reach up and touch his cheek; he kisses my palm before I draw it away. His eyes don't leave mine, and it makes me feel like I'm drowning. "Don't move."

"Yes, ma'am," he whispers, with a grin.

I grin back. I grin like a maniac as I turn away, and I try to pull my face back into seriousness as I open the door and quickly shut it behind me.

Prim just stands there, gaping. "Did you hear me? Do we have..." She trails off, her eye caught by something on the front of my shirt. I look down, but there's nothing.

"What? Do I have something..."

"Never mind." Prim is now wearing a grin to match mine and Peeta's. Her eyes are trained not on my shirt, but on my neck, just above my collarbone-

Oh crap.

I pull my shirt up, but she's seen the hickie. I look away.

"Go on," she whispers. "Go back in. I'll keep everybody busy."

"No, Prim, I..." This is wrong. This is selfish. This is just for me, for my own pleasure, there's no other reason for it. She needs me more. She needs...

"Go." She pushes me. Leans in and whispers, "He really likes you, you know." She skips off down the hallway, to join the rest of the girls.

It takes me maybe a second's thought before I'm back in the room. I close the door behind me and lean back against it. He's sitting on the edge of my bed, elbows resting on his knees (_knee_, I remind myself), hands clasped. He sits up straighter when I come in.

We just gaze at each other for a while. Then he holds up his hands to me and says, "Come here? Please?"

I'm there in an instant, kneeling down between his legs, and his arms are around me, pulling me close. He buries his face in my hair and I breathe in lungfulls of his shirt, and we stay that way for a while. I don't know quite what to do next, or what this means, or how anything will change. I feel stupidly unprepared for this.

"Hey," I finally say. I pull back a bit and so does he; he smiles at me and runs his fingers down through my hair over and over. "Why did you..." His lips on my neck again, just below my ear, distract me momentarily, and I lose my train of thought.

"Why did I? What?" His voice is a low burring in my ear, and I have to pull further away so I can concentrate.

"Why did you thank me, earlier?"

He plants a kiss on my forehead, and lets his words come out against my skin. "I know how hard that was for you, to say all that. I just..." He kisses my cheek, just next to my mouth. He can't seem to get enough of kissing me. "I appreciate that you trust me enough to tell me things like that."

I pull back again, to look into his eyes, to see whether he's bullshitting. He's not. He's right; I trust him. And I don't know why.

But I don't feel much like analyzing things right now.

This time, I'm the one who moves in and catches his lips with mine, who flicks my tongue against his lips, clutches at his hair to bring him closer. His hands surge around to my back, sweeping up and down, trying to quell my urgency, or, failing that, just slow me back to our earlier pace. But I'm having none of it.

I am on fire for this boy.


	5. That Girl's a Different Girl Today

**A/N Hi y'all...just a note, I know I am taking some liberties with the characters' ages, some are younger relative to Katniss and Peeta than they are in canon. And I've 'modernized' some of the names (Hamish for Haymitch; Finn for Finnick). That's the beauty of AU, it seems; you can tweak the details just enough to suit your fancy, but the essential story is still there. **

**This is a long one...it kind of got away from me. Get out your popcorn.**

**5: That girl's a different girl today**

SATURDAY

It's only 4:30 when Peeta's phone buzzes in his pocket; he fumbles for it with sleepy eyes and shaking hands which, a second ago, were sneaking up my bare back underneath my shirt. I lean back from him, my hands resting on his thighs, so he can answer.

The screen lights up, and his face falls. "Shit," he whispers. "It's Mitch. He's waiting outside."

He looks up and our eyes meet, and I can tell we're both thinking the same thing: _Already?_ We've only had maybe 15 minutes, here.

He gives a small whine and leans forward to capture my lips again; I slide my arms around his waist, and I'm lost again. I don't know if it's the fact that this whole thing was so unexpected, or if he's just a really good kisser, but I feel like I'm floating. Like I'm in a dream.

And his phone buzzes again, trying to wake me. He growls in frustration and pulls away, nuzzling his forehead against my throat.

"I have to go."

"I know..."

"We have to talk about this."

"I know." I bite my lip, and he runs his thumb down the line of my face, ending at my chin and tipping my face up quickly for a final kiss.

I drag myself upright, and he stands, steadying himself on my bed, and we smile goofily as we make our way out into the living room, where the girls are just putting in the third movie. They are quiet, and seem a little fatigued; Peeta packs up his bag and hitches it over his shoulder and we slip out the door to a chorus of "Thanks Peeta!" and "Bye! Thank you!" from the couch, lacing our fingers together once we reach the hallway.

We go down the stairs slowly. When we reach the bottom and I'm about to haul the heavy inner door open, he pulls me back with a tug on my hand, and suddenly I'm backed up against the wall of the little alcove at the bottom of the stairs.

He kisses me slow and sweet, trailing one hand down through my hair while his other is still entwined with my hand. I hear Mitch beeping outside, but I don't care. Peeta pulls away and moves his lips to my ear.

"Can I call you tonight?"

I smile and nod.

"Can I see you tomorrow?"

I frown. "We're going to see Hamish tomorrow. We've got...stuff..."

He nods. "Okay. Talk to you, then?"

"Yeah..."

Mitch beeps again, and Peeta slowly backs away from me, reaching for the door handle without looking, having to fumble for it but never taking his eyes off mine. He finally opens the door and slips out; I hear the lighter, outer door open, and I hear Mitch yelling from the driver's seat where he's parked at the curb, and Peeta's quiet answer, before the door closes and I'm alone.

I sink back against the concrete wall and let out a long, lingering sigh, blowing away some hair that's fallen in my face. I close my eyes for a minute, then open them, shake my head briskly, and jog back up the stairs.

Just outside our apartment door, I overhear Rue saying, "Your sister's boyfriend is really cute."

"I know," Prim answers, and they both giggle, their voices receding back into the living room.

Wait...boyfriend?

I frown as I enter, absently greet the girls-who are now lounging all over the apartment, only occasionally glancing at the movie-and drift over to the sink. I begin filling it with soapy water.

Boyfriend? Is that right? Is it even something I want? I shake my head again and think back over the past month. Things have spun out beyond what I would have pictured. I think about how much I love being with Peeta. What a great guy, and what a genuinely good person he is.

And how much he really doesn't know what he's getting into, with me.

He knows a lot of my dirt, now. But not all of it. Not, one might argue, the most important piece of dirt.

Boyfriend? Do I even want to go there?

I begin to scrub the cookie sheets that held his delicious homemade pizza. _Oh, and he cooks, too, _my scumbag brain adds helpfully.

I stack the dishes in the drying rack next to the sink and play our kisses over and over in my head, and become so distracted by the thought of his teeth against my bottom lip that I almost miss the front-door buzzer.

I shake myself as Prim runs out of her bedroom and pushes aside the front window curtain to see who's out front this time. I realize I've been running a sponge over and over the same cutting board for an undetermined amount of time, and resolutely rinse it and prop it against the wall to dry.

"It's Gale," calls Prim.

I just stare at her.

"Who's Gale?" asks Leevy. "Kat's other boyfriend?"

Leevy's turn to be stared at.

Prim scrambles to my rescue. "No. He's our irritating neighbor. I'll buzz him in, Kat." She jogs over to the wall switch and presses 'Open.' She pauses the movie and shoos her visitors down the hall toward her room. I open my mouth to protest, but Prim shakes her head.

Rue opens Prim's bedroom door and Buttercup streaks out, a ball of orange fur hissing his way into the front hallway just as Gale steps in, calling "Hey, you two..."

The cat sees Gale and yowls; Gale starts, and then hisses back at Buttercup. Prim rushes over and gathers him up, clicking her tongue and scratching his ears. He opens his mouth in a silent hiss back at Gale as Prim carries him like a baby back down the hallway.

I can't help but laugh; Gale smiles in return and runs a hand through his hair as he calls, "Hello Prim!"

Prim's door slams.

I meet his eye and we continue chuckling. "You can't blame him," I say, wiping my hands on a dishtowel. "He's been incarcerated in Prim's room since before-" I was about to say, _Since before Peeta got here_. "Since before the party started."

"I can blame him," he says, opening the fridge and helping himself to a soda. "And I do."

I roll my eyes. "To what do we owe the honor?"

He shrugs. "Just stopping off before work. I have to close tonight. I need caffeine."

"So you're just using us for our soda?"

"Basically."

I nod and cast my eyes around the room, the smile falling off of my face. If I could have picked the one person I'd rather not see today...

He stretches his back, the joints popping, and I wince at the sound. I always hated that. "So how did it go today?"

I nod again. "Good."

"Just good?"

And that's the moment my phone decides to start buzzing. My face is flooded with warmth as I realize who it must be, and I fumble in my pocket for a few seconds, wandering toward the living room. "Um...I'm just gonna...real quick..."

Gale shrugs and wanders after me, flopping down on the couch, grabbing the remote and helping himself to a cookie.

I turn my back on him, biting my lip, my thumb hovering over the green Answer button. The caller ID says PEETA. I station myself at the front window; the day has turned hot and hazy, too hot for September, the sun withering everything.

I twitch the curtain and let it fall back behind me, so I'm partially hidden, then hit the button and put the phone to my ear, hunching over. Behind me, Gale turns on the TV and starts rapidly flipping through our 12 channels.

"Hello?"

"Hey," he says, and the warmth in his voice has me grinning stupidly. "I, ah, I waited as long as I could to call you."

"Impressive," I intone. "Are you still in the car?"

"Bingo."

I laugh softly. Gale turns the TV volume down. "Hey listen, I can't really...talk."

"Neither can I." We both have company. Damnit. "But I wanted to tell you I had a really good time today."

"Um." Stupid, stupid smile won't leave my face. "Me too."

"Really. Really good."

"Yeah. I know."

I hear Mitch say something in the background and some rustling that might be Peeta lowering the phone, and I shift my weight around, suddenly not knowing what to do with myself.

Gale switches off the TV. "Nothing's on," he whines, and I frown over my shoulder at him. Which is stupid. Why would Peeta care if Gale is here? He's my friend, just my friend.

"Katniss?" Peeta's back.

"Yeah." I hold up one of today's DVD cases for Gale to see, and then pitch it at him when he makes a sour face. It catches him on the shoulder and he spills soda onto his pants.

"Goddamnit!" Gale jumps up and runs to the sink, and I groan inwardly at how loud he is.

"I've...gotta go," Peeta says. He sounds distracted now. "I'll talk to you later?"

"Okay. Yeah. Later is...better."

"Okay," he says, but he doesn't hang up. Neither do I. Finally: "I...I just..."

"I, um." My heart seems to swell, and I have to look away from Gale. "I know what you mean," I say. Lame, but it will have to do for now.

"Okay...bye."

He's hung up before I can say goodbye.

Gale is frowning at me from the kitchen, dabbing at his khakis with a wet dish towel. "Pretty boy getting home okay?"

My head snaps up; I've been staring down at my phone. "What?"

"Yeah, you're real subtle, Catnip."

He barely ever calls me that any more. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He snorts. "That was Peeta, yes?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Interesting that he basically invited himself over, today."

I slip the phone back in my pocket and cross my arms tightly across my chest. "He's my friend. I can have a friend over."

"I didn't say you couldn't."

"Well, why do you care?"

He looks away. "I don't."

My turn to snort. "Right. Because you're acting so much like you don't care, right now."

"You're getting awfully defensive."

I'm getting mad, is what I'm getting. "I don't have anything to be defensive about. You're just being-"

Prim's timing is impeccable, I'll give her that. She chooses that moment to barge back into the living room with her buddies. "Sorry to interrupt, cat-haters. We've got a movie to watch." The girls deposit themselves on and around the couch as Gale hauls himself up, dark-lashed eyes flashing at me.

I circle the couch and stalk by him, arms still crossed in front. I open the front door for him, effectively ushering him out of earshot of the girls, and then turn my back and head toward my room. He stage-whispers one last parting shot from the doorway, though:

"By the way. Tell him not to bite so hard, next time. That thing looks painful."

My hand flies up to cover the red mark on my collarbone for the second time, and I slam my bedroom door, rattling the picture on the wall.

I lower myself onto my bed, sitting where Peeta sat, less than an hour ago. I flop backwards, tears pricking at my eyes.

Why does he have to be so hateful?

A voice nags from a tiny, private corner of my brain: _You know why_.

...

SUNDAY

"Waiting for a call, sweetheart?"

My mouth pulls into a grim line as I repress the urge to throw my phone at the man in the driver's seat. He's thin and grey-skinned, with scraggly brown hair fashioned into a kind of half-hearted mullet. His clothes are clean but still reek of cigarettes. He only vaguely resembles my mother.

I quickly lock the screen and slip the phone back into my pocket. "No."

"Yes she is," Prim informs Uncle Hamish from the back seat.

He raises his eyebrows and turns to glance at her in the back before quickly facing forward again. "Really? Who's that?"

I roll my eyes and turn to the window. The pine trees file by in a monotonous line as we speed north; if there is anything more boring than the stretch of Maine Turnpike between Portland and Lewiston, I haven't found it yet.

"Her boyfriend," Prim answers, almost too quietly for us to hear. Almost.

Hamish immediately breaks into an enthusiastic grin. "Oh, really?"

I whip around and narrow my eyes at Prim. "Shut up."

She widens her eyes, a little too innocently. "What? I thought he was."

I face forward again. "We haven't talked about it yet. So don't go...saying stuff."

"Well, well, well," Hamish says, and even though I'm studying the treeline again, I can hear the delighted grin in his voice. He's not delighted for me; he's delighted that he has something to tease me about. Being jobless, teasing me is his number one occupation. "Someone has chiseled their way into the heart of the Ice Queen. Who is this brave soul?"

I sigh. "Just this guy...we're not even going out, officially."

"Seemed pretty official, to me..." Prim again.

I whip around and give her my_ I'll-deal-with-you-later _glare; she shrinks back into her seat, but she's still smiling.

I face forward, and Hamish is still glancing from me, to the road, and back to me again, an eager look on his haggard face. Eager to tease. "He's...I met him in class. It's nothing. It's just..."

Now he's smirking. "If it's nothing, why have you been checking that phone every minute for the past half hour?"

Much as I hate to admit it...I have. This very moment, in fact, I'm pulling my phone out to unlock, tap the screen, frown at the empty message box, then lock it down again.

Because...he never called back last night.

I'm embarrassed to think about it now, but I kept the phone by me the whole night. Not on the nightstand...on the pillow next to me. I fumbled around in a panic for it this morning, finding it tangled in a ball of sheets down by my feet. Finding no messages, no missed calls.

It's almost noon. And, nothing.

I wouldn't call it panic, what I'm feeling. I wouldn't even call it disappointment. It's more like resignation, a cold and quiet feeling, and one that I find I welcome. At least it's familiar.

I don't answer Hamish, because I'm not sure I have an answer, yet. Why am I checking? Once I was away from Peeta last night, and his eyes and his smile and his damn delicious smell (flour and sugar), I thought about it more.

I'm not good for him.

And anyway. He probably heard Gale in the background of our conversation last night, and got suspicious that something was up. He did hang up kind of abruptly.

It's better.

Still, I pull out the phone and check yet again. Nothing.

And then, Hamish opens his big mouth.

"You know," he says, "This is something your mom would love to hear about."

The atmosphere in the car goes from uncomfortably warm to frigid. And I turn to stone. My head swivels around to glare at him, but he's got his eyes fixed on the highway.

"She asks about you every time, you know." He slides his eyes over to my side, catches my stony glare and quickly faces forward again. "If, you know, you care at all."

I bite the inside of my cheek and face forward again. Prim has gone very quiet in the back. Hamish begins to slow down for a toll booth, digging in his pocket for a dollar bill.

I don't have to say that I don't care. He knows I don't care.

Instead of answering, I bite back. "Where's your license, Hamish?"

He leans on the brakes, falling into line behind an SUV, waiting to pay the toll. He mumbles something about _suspended_.

"Then how are you driving?"

"Not gonna miss a visit with my baby sister."

My conscience pricks me in that moment, and I hate myself for it, so I bite him again.

"Nice of you to _clean up _for the occasion."

He knows what I mean. He tugs at the collar of his shirt and rolls his head from side to side. "You know, you don't have to come along on these visits, if all you're gonna do is sit in the car and wait for us to come back out. Seems to me, you're here just so you can have someone to be mean to."

I let out a mirthless laugh. "Like I'd let _my_ baby sister ride alone with you."

Prim gives a loud sniff from the back seat, and I will myself not to look back there.

And I will myself not to check my phone again until Hamish and Prim have disappeared behind the walls of the Maine State Penitentiary, the heavy doors clanging behind them and all the other sad little families who show up on Visiting Day.

...

I do not make the mistake, Sunday night, of sleeping with my phone. I place it carefully on the kitchen table before I head in to bed, so I won't even be able to hear it if it does ring. I get up once during the night to go to the bathroom, and can't keep from eyeing the phone as it lies there. But I don't pick it up; I crawl back into bed and thrash around for a while.

I'm kind of mad, actually. Even if you're not interested, you don't just kiss a girl like he did and then not call. But apparently he does, because there are no messages, no texts the next morning. I barely give the screen a second glance.

Elementary Analysis with B.T. is my (and Peeta's, too) first class Monday, and I take no care when I dress for it. I purposely wear my rattiest ripped jeans and my oldest, most faded and comfiest long-sleeved tee shirt. I braid my hair back, load my bag and practically stalk down the sidewalk, and god help anyone who gets in my way. Yes; this is the Old Katniss.

Somehow, I manage to be late again.

But.

When I get there, B.T. has already filled the board with equations that I'm in no mood to decipher. I push open the door, not caring who sees me.

Yes, I'm late and I'm proud.

And Peeta's saved a seat for me again.

He looks up as the door squeaks open, and the second he sees me his face pulls into a grin that almost stops my heart. He yanks his bag off of the chair beside him and it hits the floor with a thud; B.T. and half of his students look over at us, and I slink into the seat, my face flaming.

The lecture continues, and I'm digging around in my bag for a notebook and pen when Peeta slides his notebook over to my side of the table, right under my nose so I have to read it.

LOST MY PHONE, he's written in huge block letters.

I try not to smile. I try my hardest. But then I glance over at him with one eyebrow raised, and he's got this wide-eyed puppy dog look on his face. My mouth starts to twitch, then breaks into a smile; I hope that my relief is not showing too obviously. And Old Katniss disappears.

He grabs the notebook back and begins writing furiously, biting one corner of his lip, and I watch him. My bag sits on my lap, forgotten.

_I think I left it in Mitch's car_, he writes. _Couldn't find him, OR Annie, OR Gale all weekend. Asked everyone on my floor...no one knew your #!_

I frown and write: _?_ Hoping he'll take my meaning. _You_ knew my number.

He shakes his head like he's disgusted with himself. _Couldn't remember your actual #. I've had you on speed dial in my phone for so long. Drove myself crazy trying to think of it._

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. Because, didn't I spend all that time driving myself crazy too? And I'm also a little ashamed of myself for not even trying to call him. I wouldn't have gotten him, but still. I could have tried.

So, I take custody of the notebook again and write my number, in big block numbers to match his.

He replies with a smiley face, then grabs the paper back to write, _Can we talk after?_

I smile at him and nod, and I'm kind of ashamed of how warm and happy I'm feeling, but at the same time, I don't care.

Halfway through class, I feel a soft kick against my ankle; I look down to find that he's inched his foot closer to mine. I bite my lip and face forward again, sliding my foot over to kick him back. Instead, he hooks his foot around mine and keeps it there for the rest of class. And I don't get any notes taken.

After, we both stand silently and gather our things, hanging back a little so we can take the stairs a little more slowly. We are quiet until we get outside in the sunshine, both bursting with unsaid words. We turn to one another once we reach the grass of the quad; our eyes meet, and I know, I just know that he's going to kiss me again. And I'm going to let him.

His eyes drop to my old, soft shirt, and he says, "You look really nice today."

"Uh, are you kidding?" I have to laugh a little.

"No! You look really...cozy. Cute." He leans close, and his voice is soft. "So, I was thinking-"

"Dude!" It's Mitch. He hurries up to us, holding an IPhone in one hand. "Lose something?"

"Aw, thanks, man," says Peeta.

"Didn't even notice it was in my car until yesterday. It was down beside the seat, lucky it's not cracked. Hey, Kat," he adds, raising a hand in my direction, and I half-smile and nod.

"Yeah. Lucky..." He smiles at me, and I stare down at my shoes.

"So dude, let's go. We've got that project for Ross."

Peeta frowns. "That's today?"

"Yeah, man. I tried to call you about it yesterday, but..."

"Well, do we have to do it right now?" He glances at me, and I get a sinking feeling that our talk isn't going to happen today.

Mitch fake-punches him on the arm. "The thing's due in an hour."

He presses his lips together, turning to me. "I'm really sorry, it's this stupid project for Art History, I completely forgot."

I nod. "No, it's okay." I twist the strap of my bag, wanting so badly to lean up and kiss his cheek. Just a peck. But Mitch is right there, obviously wanting to hit the library in the hour they apparently have before their project is due. "I kind of have class all afternoon, but...what about tonight?"

He shakes his head. "I have Studio, back in Gorham. I can't really skip it."

I sigh, so softly I don't think he hears it. He's watching me with these mournful eyes. I wonder if he wants to kiss me as badly as I want to kiss him. "Okay...tomorrow?"

"Okay..." He leans in, and then quickly away, glancing over at Mitch. "I'll call you tonight, though."

I smile as he backs away, just as he did Saturday, not wanting to turn around and break eye contact. He stumbles a little, and Mitch reaches out to grab his arm. "Come _on, _man..."

I sigh again and head in to lunch, alone.

...

I get a text from him at 9:30.

_Hi, just got out of class. Covered in clay. How are you?_

I laugh out loud, the sound echoing weirdly in my empty apartment, and flip my textbook closed. _Clay, huh? Sexy_.

A short pause, and then: _You wouldn't say that if you could see me. But since you can't...thank you. :)_

I take a deep breath. This is crazy. Kat does not text with boys. But: _So about our talk_.

A longer pause. _Do you mind if we save it for tomorrow?_

I frown. _Okay..._

Then, quickly: _It's just, I'd rather say what I want to say in person_.

That...could be good or bad. He's weirding me out. _All good, I hope?_

_Oh yes yes! All good. Just not something I want to say over the phone_.

I stare out the window, not knowing quite how to answer him. I must sit there wondering what to say for longer than I thought, because the next thing I know, the phone is ringing.

PEETA, it says.

"Sorry I can't type fast enough for you," I say, hoping he can't hear the smile in my voice.

"It's not that," he says. He's definitely smiling; I can hear it. "It's just...well, two things. One, I just wanted to tell you that no, of course it's nothing bad."

"Okay, and two?"

"And two...I just kinda wanted to hear your voice."

That does it. I'm once again flooded with warmth, a blush creeping onto my face. "Oh," is the best and safest response I can come up with.

"So...goodnight, then?"

"Night."

"Oh, and Katniss?"

"Yeah," I say, running my fingers slowly through my hair, the way he did when he was kissing me.

"Don't be late."

After we hang up, I remain sitting cross-legged on my couch, staring down at my phone for a long time. At his name. _Peeta_.

...What the hell is happening to me?

...

TUESDAY

I'm woken at 8:15 AM by a panicked call from Prim.

"Kat. I'm in the school office and that check bounced. They need you to come sign this thing today."

"Hold on..." I stagger out of bed and promptly fall on my ass, my feet tangled in the sheets that have worked themselves into a ball around my feet again. "Shit. I bit my tongue."

"Are you okay?"

"Bleeding, but okay." My tongue has gone numb and I taste blood; I put the back of my hand up against my mouth and it comes away red. But hey, I'm up. "Does it have to be today? I have class."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Kat. It's just, they can't reach Hamish, he won't pick up the phone."

"Son of a bitch. It's his name on the account, too."

"And today is the last day they can-"

"I just talked to those bank assholes last week. They shouldn't be holding payments on these checks any more..." I'm on my feet again, sifting through clothes on my bedroom floor, trying to find the khakis and button down shirt I usually wear to meet with Prim's teachers. "I'll be there by noon, okay, Ducky? I'll have to take the crosstown bus, but I'll be there."

"Thank you, Kat. You know I wouldn't ask unless-"

"Of course I know. I'll see you soon. Love you."

...

I wait to call him until I'm actually on the bus.

"Hey!" He sounds really jazzed to hear from me, which makes me feel even worse.

"Hey," I mumble, covering my mouth with one hand in an effort not to be overheard. "So I just called to tell you-"

"Sorry, I can't hear you very well. What?"

I sigh, uncover my mouth and speak up, eavesdroppers be damned. "I just wanted to tell you...I'm not going to be in seminar today."

"What?"

"I got called to Prim's school, I'm on the bus on the way there right now. And then after, I have to go track down my uncle. Probably clean up some vomit." There's silence on the other end of the line. Crap; why did I add that last part? "So I'll pretty much be gone all day."

"I'm...sorry you have to deal with that." A pause. "That sucks. I, ah..." A longer pause. Then: "I miss you."

My heart drops. "I...I wish we had gotten to..." My hands are shaking.

"Yeah."

"So. Tomorrow?" I try.

He sighs. "Actually, _I'm_ not going to be around tomorrow. Appointment at the hospital."

My heart drops. "Are...you okay? Why are you-"

"No, it's cool, really. It's just this thing I have to do every few months. It's no big deal. But it does kind of take all day, so I'm gonna miss most of my classes."

"Oh." I'm glad he can't see the way my face fell.

"Cover for me with B.T. tomorrow?"

"Only if you'll cover for me with Trinket today."

"Deal. Hey, call when you get home tonight. Okay?"

"Okay."

But it's very late by the time Hamish is settled.

And I have to call Gale to drive me home.

And I don't call Peeta.

...

WEDNESDAY

Wednesday is a blur.

I'm dead tired from yesterday. And I didn't call Peeta. By the end of Tuesday, I had convinced myself again that it was better if I didn't. Better for him.

As promised, Peeta is not in class this morning. I sit in the quad through lunch; Annie finds me and tries to convince me to go to the cafeteria, but I wave her off, saying I'm not hungry.

I'm laying in my bed, staring at the ceiling at 10PM when he calls.

"Hey. How are you?" His voice is different, cautious.

"Okay. I'm sorry I didn't call, I was...upset when I got home last night." Not a lie. I was very upset. "I just wanted to go to bed." Also not a lie.

He doesn't need to know about Gale. What he said. How he feels.

"I can see that." A long silence. "Hey, Mitch is driving to the show tomorrow night." Oh, the show. I'd forgotten about the show. "We're going to Local 188 before, then walking over to the State. Do you want us to pick you up?"

Tomorrow. "Yeah, that'd be great," I say, trying to muster up the right amount of enthusiasm. I can't figure out why this is so awkward, all of a sudden.

We hang up soon after, and I throw the phone down on the mattress and cover my eyes with the flat of my palms, and let the exhausted tears leak out here, alone.

...

THURSDAY

I decide on the black shirt, the one I borrowed from Madge about six months ago, then wrote off as too revealing for my purposes. I forgot to return it to her, and it made its way to the back of my closet.

It's basically a clingy black tank top with spaghetti straps, cut much lower than I normally wear, with a black nylon overshirt, long-sleeved, that's also very clingy, and very see-through. I pair it with a decent pair of jeans and my clunky black boots. Hair? Down.

I don't allow myself to think about why I've dug this shirt out of retirement.

At the last moment, I decide to wear Dad's pendant. A silver bracelet with a tiny mockingbird charm. My eleventh birthday gift.

Mitch pulls up at seven with a carful already: he and Diana (looking wicked in a green mini-dress) in front, Peeta and, to my surprise, Madge in the back.

"Hey," I greet her, as she slides over next to Peeta and I slide in next to her. She's gorgeous, as always. She's one of those girls who just instinctively knows how to put on makeup, her shiny blonde hair never seems mussed, and she's wearing the hell out of her Little Black Dress.

"Wow," she says, practically ogling me. "I'm gonna stop asking for that shirt back. It looks much hotter on you than it ever did on me."

"Shut up," I tell her, but a smile creeps up on me anyway. "Hey guys," I call into the front seat.

Diana turns around and smiles; Mitch says, "Hey Kat, haven't seen you around this week. Where've you been hiding?"

_They care?_ "Life," I tell him. "It sucks."

That earns a few chuckles. I lean forward, pretending to fiddle with one of my shoelaces, and tilt my head sideways just enough to see Peeta.

His attention is gotten. He's trying to be subtle about letting his eyes roam over every inch of my body from across the car, without alerting Madge, but the fact that his mouth is hanging slightly open isn't helping.

Finally, our eyes meet. His mouth quirks up in a half-smile, and he stares as my hair falls down over my shoulder and I have to sweep it back. _Wow,_ he mouths silently at me, shaking his head a little bit. My face burns and I grin foolishly down at my shoelace, finish fake-tying it, and sit back again.

I doubt we're fooling Madge; she's known me for too long. But she kindly doesn't say anything. "Where's Gale tonight?" she asks instead, turning to me, and I take a deep breath, trying to chase the blush away, willing myself to focus on her and not the boy sitting on her other side. "I called him, but he mumbled something about having to work?"

"Bull," I say. "He just didn't want to come."

"Why?"

I pick at the seam of my jeans, finding a thread and winding it between my fingers. "Because he's a fucking child."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he doesn't like taking 'charity.'"

She frowns. "But this wasn't charity. The tickets didn't cost Finn anything."

I shake my head and turn to the window. "Tell it to the nutcase, next time you see him. Gale said he would rather die than take a handout."

Not a lie, technically. He did say that. Just not about the tickets.

...

Local 188 is crowded for a Thursday; it looks like a pre-show crowd, but we're lucky enough to find a table that all 5 of us can scrunch around. Peeta and I end up separated by Madge and Diana; Mitch plants himself next to Peeta and starts complaining about something sports-related. I'm fuzzy on the details because Peeta's wearing blue again and it's very distracting, and I may be imagining it, but his cheeks are slightly flushed, despite the cool evening. The lighting is dim and the crowd is noisy; I can barely hear Madge and Di and I couldn't tell you what they're talking about. I order just a milkshake, thinking it'll settle my stomach, because it's in knots. I try very hard not to let my tongue linger on the straw.

I also try very hard not to look across the table, but I'm not doing a very good job at that either. Peeta's having trouble focusing too; he keeps looking over at me and biting at the corner of his lip, and his sandwich and fries are untouched in front of him.

But, we don't talk. Somehow I can't; I feel like it wouldn't be right, with all these people here. I feel like I have things to say that are only for him, if I can just find a time and a place that's right. It's been nearly impossible, so far.

Finally there's a lull in the sports-talk, and a decent conversational topic actually enters my head. "Oh hey," I try, and then have to clear my throat. Peeta's eyes zero in on me in an instant, and I take a small sip of milkshake, licking the excess off my lips before I continue, addressing the table at large. "Where's Annie tonight? I...saw her Wednesday, but she didn't say if she was coming or not."

"_Oh,"_ Diana says. "We didn't tell you?"

I roll my eyes at her and fiddle with my straw, lifting it out of the drink and letting it fall back. "No one ever tells me anything."

She grins wickedly, leaning over Madge and laying a hand on the table, close to mine. "_Annie and Finn_ are meeting us there tonight." She wiggles her eyebrows up and down.

My mouth falls open, and then curls into a grin. "Really? I had a feeling about those two..."

Madge shouts out a laugh, throwing her arm around me and putting her head on my shoulder. "You had a feeling about them? Kat, sweetie. Did it have anything to do with the fact that he couldn't keep the drool off of his chin when she was around?" She pats my arm, and I throw her off with a scowl. "No offense, but you were probably the last one to know." She pauses. "Well, besides Annie, that is."

Di and Mitch laugh at this too, and I have to smile, even as I furiously lift my straw up and let it fall over and over. I finally lift it out and let my tongue dart along the end, licking at some of the thicker ice cream at the bottom of the straw.

I look up and Peeta's silently watching, his eyes wide; he doesn't appear to be breathing. I drop the straw back into my drink.

"Okay," I mumble. "So I'm not the world's most observant friend. So what, were they going out before the show?"

Mitch chuckles. "He had some big surprise planned. Fuck only knows what. If Annie hasn't run away screaming yet, he's lucky."

Peeta raises his eyebrows. "I don't know. Annie's tougher than you think."

Something about the way he says it gets my attention; I narrow my eyes at him, and he shrugs. There's more to this story, more that Peeta knows but isn't sharing. He raises his eyebrows at me and lets them fall, and suddenly there's something in his eyes that makes my stomach flutter and my throat dry up. I reach down and take a final sip of my milkshake, drawing mostly air up the straw, before I let it fall from my lips.

"Hey, the opening band should be done by now," Madge says, looking at her watch. "You guys want to head over?"

After we've all left random amounts of money on the table (it will either be the best tip or the worst tip this waiter has ever gotten), Madge links her arm with mine so she can walk with me and Di. It's only about two blocks to the State Theater; it's getting dark, but I can see people milling around in front, spilling out onto Congress Street, and the throbbing bass from the opening band gets more and more distinct the closer we get.

I don't look back over my shoulder, where Peeta and Mitch are trailing us, though I'm burning to do so every second.

The crowd inside the theater is unbelievable; the lobby seems tiny, and we're pushed and pulled away from one another as soon as we squeeze in the door. My arm is still linked with Madge's, so I don't lose her, and I follow blindly as she pulls me through the crowd. She's spotted Finn and Annie across the lobby; he's talking directly into her ear, the only way you could get someone to hear you in this chaos, and she's smiling in that gentle way of hers, so calm that she might be back in her dorm room listening to Mozart instead of squeezed into a tiny, ancient theater with hundreds of sweaty, hyper bodies still high from their pre-partying.

Finn hugs both of us, then peers around for the rest of the group. I spot Peeta, Mitch and Di still stuck near the entrance, but I can't communicate this; now that we're so close to the theater, the music is so loud that we can only mouth mutely at one another until the song is over.

Finally the openers finish their set and the cheering begins; Finn inclines his head toward the theater entrance and shouts, "Let's go sit!" I can barely hear him; I feel like my ears have been stuffed with cotton. I glance back over my shoulder and, through the crowd, I just catch sight of Peeta's blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, back behind a loud, sloppy group, before we are swept into the theater with the waiting crowd.

Our seats are about halfway down in the front section; I end up seated at the end of the row, which sucks because it means I'll have to stand up every time anyone in the entire row has to leave. Which will be every five minutes, judging from the cloud of pot smoke already hanging in the air like a haze. Once the music starts it won't matter, because everyone will stand up and move seats anyway, but it's a pain in the ass right now. There are still people milling all around in the gap between the opening band and the main event, shouting to one another and searching for row and seat numbers. The occasional scuffle breaks out.

My head whips from side to side, my eyes searching. I don't see him. I frown; I thought we all had seats together. I turn to Madge to ask her about it; she's seated next to me, and she grips my hand as the lights go down, grinning at me like a little kid. I smile back; it's been a long time since we've been to a show together. Too long.

There's still a low rumble from the crowd, but when a spotlight comes up and fixes on the lead singer in the center of the stage, gripping the mic tightly and singing along to simple strokes from a guitar, a hush gradually falls. I smile; they're opening with _When the Sun Goes Down_. The single spotlight continues on the singer through the opening lines of the song; there are random cheers from the crowd now, and some people are getting to their feet. I sit back.

And then: the music explodes, every light on the stage comes up, the guitar grinds, the drums beat a staccato rhythm and there's the band, there's the beat, there's the music. Every person in the theater is on their feet, including Madge, but for some reason I stay down for a beat longer, letting the wavering light wash over me, feeling the music pulse up through the floor, vibrating inside my ribcage and thrumming into my temples.

I glance to my right, and everyone else is on their feet; I can see down the length of the row. No; not quite everyone; there's someone else, down at the end of the row, who's still seated.

It's Peeta. And he's looking right at me.

It hits me with a jolt, and suddenly everyone else in the theater disappears. There's only the two of us. This is our moment; there is no one else between us. I realize the truth of this very vividly, very simply.

He smiles. I smile.

He glances over at the rest of the people filling the row between us; they're all standing, jumping, cheering, impossible to get through. Another barrier.

He looks back at me and shrugs, lifting his eyebrows again, and I shrug back, and our eyes burn into one another.

I have to tell him...what, I don't know, but I have to touch him. Right now.

The first song ends, to wild cheering. The next song begins; _R U Mine?._

I draw my bottom lip in between my teeth. He takes a deep breath; I can see his shoulders lift and then fall. Without taking his eyes off of me, he inclines his head toward the back of the theater, the lobby.

My smile grows, and I nod, understanding immediately. I pop up out of my seat, touch Madge's arm and incline my own head back toward the lobby. She nods, grabbing my hand again briefly and then turning back to the stage.

I fight my way down the aisle as Peeta makes his way down the opposite one, losing sight of him again as I'm jostled and groped on my way back to the lobby. The music thrums up through my feet, vibrating my entire body, but I'm not sure that's why my legs are shaking.

I get to the lobby and it's somehow still crammed with bodies, sweaty and close. I see Peeta nowhere, so I make my way to the nearest empty wallspace and lean up against it, going up on my toes and willing myself to be taller. I try to find the door where he'll he coming out, but I've gotten all turned around and the throbbing music is closing me in, overwhelming my senses...

Until I see him. The band starts playing _From the Ritz to the Rubble_, there's a break in the crowd, and I see him an instant before he sees me; our eyes latch onto one another and I feel a tremor in my legs that I don't think has anything to do with the bass. He's sweating like he has a fever, strands of hair sticking to his forehead. He closes his eyes briefly and I see him say my name. _Katniss_. I can't hear him, but his lips form it perfectly.

He opens his eyes and starts making his way toward me, bumping into people, stumbling, limping a little, not looking anywhere but at me. I press myself against the wall, wiping my palms against my jeans.

He finally reaches me but doesn't seem to stop his forward momentum; he cups the back of my head with one palm, bringing my head close to his and brushing the length of his body up against mine and bracing his other hand against the wall, so the weight will be off his bad leg. He leans his forehead against the wall and places his lips right against my ear; it's the only way to make yourself heard in this crowd, after all, with the sound pounding in from all sides.

When he speaks in a hot rush of breath against my ear, I feel it like a weak tingling all the way down to my toes.

"I have been thinking about you," he says, "Every minute. Of every day. Since the day we met." His voice is low and softly-accented, just as I remember it from the day he's talking about. He laughs, a few gentle puffs of air, and pulls away just long enough to glance at my face, his eyes wildly happy and desperately hungry; I'm too overwhelmed to do more than stare at him, so he leans back in and says, "Will you please, for the love of god, just kiss me again? Before I go completely insane?"

This time when he pulls back, I don't hesitate. I grab the collar of his shirt in my sweaty fists, pull him into me and begin devouring his mouth. He crashes back into me, cradling my head now with both of his hands, pressing me back; our mouths are furiously molding together. My legs are about to give out and I'm about to tremble out of my skin, and I can't hear a goddamn thing for the music. People jostle and press in on us; he wraps his arms around me and holds me tight against him, running his fingers down and through my hair over and over, and there is only Peeta in front of me and behind me and all around.

No one can make me doubt this, any more.

Finally the kiss ends, and the song ends, and he tucks my head into his shoulder and just holds me there against the wall. He's sweaty and smells of pot and greasy food and Old Spice, and I don't think I've ever inhaled anything more delicious.

They start playing _Mardy Bum_. I grin and pull back, tilting my head up so my chin is resting on his chest. "I love this song!" I shout.

He grins back and raises his eyebrows, smoothing my hair back again as he mouths, _Do you want to go back in?, _inclining his head toward the packed and rollicking theater.

_No_, I mouth back at him, shaking my head slowly. _You? _I point at him.

He shakes his head. _ No_.

He leans down and captures my mouth again, captures my face, my throat and ears and shoulders with soft insistent lips, and I kind of lose track of what songs are playing for the rest of the night.


	6. I'll bet that you look good

**A/N: Nothing but fluff over here, kids. Nothing but fluff, with a few sprinklings of substantive plot thrown in. Because I can't HELP MYSELF. These two are just so darn cute.**

**Oh, and 'Katniss wearing Peeta's sports jersey' is shamelessly shoplifted from loveleee's lovely story "the next will never come." Read it! **

**And while I'm plugging other stories. Plug yourself into Court81981's "A Favorable Wind." Really. Read it. Get addicted. Joooooooin us.**

**'Kay, bye.**

**Chap 6: I'll bet that you look good on the dance floor**

The trouble starts one ordinary Wednesday afternoon in mid-October. We're on our way into the Portland caf with the whole crew, and Peeta spots the flier on the activities board just inside the door.

"Hold up." He tugs on my hand to make me stop, but I pull back.

"Come on...I'm hungry." I've never in my life paid attention to an 'activities board,' and I'm not going to start now. Not when I skipped breakfast.

"You should've had breakfast. Most important meal, you know." He pulls me up close and ruffles my hair.

"I told you, we have no groceries right now." I pout at him and give another feeble tug on his hand. "Plus,_ someone _kept me up really late last night. So I slept in, and then had no time for breakfast."

"Whooooo, Mellark. Get you some. Up top," calls Mitch, sailing past us and holding his hand out for a high five. Peeta slaps his palm, rolling his eyes but also grinning like a Cheshire cat. Mitch gives an evil laugh, running forward to catch Di's hand before she disappears into the cafeteria. Annie slips in after them, smiling vaguely back at us.

"On the phone!" I call after them. "We were up late...talking on the phone." But they're already gone. I turn to Peeta, my eyes narrowed, and lean in close. "Should we tell them I was just talking you through the latest episode of Hell's Kitchen?"

He leans in and kisses my jaw, murmuring, "No...let them think whatever they want."

"You're bad." I slap his arm lightly, then grab his shirt and try again to drag him after me. "Food. Food. Let's go."

"No, hang on. Look at this." He's pointing to a flier on the bulletin board, still smiling, and I step back and take a moment to just admire him.

We've been officially going out for about two weeks, and I am in so deep, it's embarrassing. At least, it embarrasses me when I think about it objectively, when I'm alone or just with Prim. When I'm not with him, I'm mortified at the thought of how my heart starts beating faster when I see him, I'm troubled at how easily I can lose myself in his kisses.

I roll my eyes at myself for nearly cracking my face in two smiling, when he showed up for seminar the day after the concert with flowers for me.

Such a silly, romantic gesture... and yet, I'd taken a daisy and stuck it behind my ear and left it there for the rest of the day. And when he kissed me breathless in the rickety little elevator after class and whispered _I've wanted to do that since the first time we shared this elevator_, I shivered when my entire body came out in goosebumps.

He does something to me.

He makes me forget everything that's wrong and hard. He makes me see what's beautiful. And I have no idea what he sees in grumpy, socially-awkward me, but I'm not going to be the one to call him out on it.

He looks back at me now and I can't help but smile at his sweetness, his blue eyes with those ridiculous lashes, the corner of his mouth that always tucks up into his cheek when he's about to smile. That's where I like to kiss him.

"Hey." He waves a hand in front of my face. "Come back to me."

"Huh?" I shake my head. "Oh...sorry. What?" He caught me staring, and I duck my head a little.

"Check it out." He gestures toward the flier.

I look over at the neon-orange paper, and my heart sinks. "It's...a dance." I lean forward, frowning.

"A Halloween dance." He wiggles his eyebrows at me.

"It's on a Wednesday."

"That's the 31st. Halloween. You may have heard of it."

I stare at him. "You can't be serious."

He grins. "Sure I am. What?"

"I hate dances. I don't dance."

"Come on. Not at all?" He takes both of my hands in his. "Look." He inclines his head back to the flier, and I squint over at it, unconvinced. "It says if you come in costume, there's no cover charge."

"Costume?" My mouth falls open. "No. No."

"Come on. Pleeeease..."

"A Halloween dance, Peeta? What are we, in ninth grade?"

He clears his throat and gets this mischievious look on his face. "Katniss Everdeen!" He's practically shouting, his voice booming off the rafters in the entryway. My eyes go wide, and people begin to look over at us curiously, as he continues, "Will you do me the great, great honor of accompanying me to-"

"Okay, okay," I hiss, tugging on his hands and inadvertently bringing him closer. I whip my head around, catching a few people snickering and shooting them dirty looks. "Fine, fine..." He pulls me even closer. "Fine," I whisper through my teeth, facing him. "But I am not dressing up."

He kisses my cheek. "Okay."

"Or dancing."

He kisses my chin. "Sounds good."

A smile is creeping onto my face. "And we're only staying for an hour. Tops. Got it?"

"Whatever you say," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss my lips. It's just a sweet, soft, Peeta kiss, but I feel my whole body flush as my eyes flutter closed, and I have to fight to keep my hands from shaking in his. I pull away slowly, leaning back until I'm pulling him along.

"Can we go eat now?"

"Yup."

We're both grinning like fools. I am definitely, definitely in big trouble here.

...

That night, I sleep over in his room for the first time.

I don't mean to. I really don't. I ride back to Gorham with all of them because Peeta has one more class, and I try to hang out with Annie until he gets out. But she seems more distracted as the afternoon goes on. She pretends to read the same page in her Art History book for about half an hour, but her eyes keep drifting over to the window and a small frown is creasing her brow. I wish I was the kind of friend who could easily ask what's wrong, but I'm more comfortable with silence and letting people tell me things in their own time.

Plus, I wouldn't know how to begin, because I've had almost no experience at this. It feels like we're both kind of practicing at friendship, still; we've mastered the small talk and the studying together, but the personal sharing still eludes us.

I get the feeling that neither of us has very happy things to share.

After a while, I glance at my watch and close the notebook that I've been trying to do math problems in. "I'm gonna head down the hall, see if Peeta's back, then I'll probably go back to town. See you tomorrow?"

She smiles over at me as I get up, but the expression doesn't reach her eyes. "Yeah, see you tomorrow." Her smile grows as she adds, "Say hi to Peeta for me."

I let my eyes slide to the side, a grin tugging at my own lips. "Yeah. I will. Bye..."

I knock softly before pushing Peeta's door open; he's lounging on his bed with a sketch book open in front of him, but instead of drawing he's tapping on the keyboard of his laptop, open on the bed next to him. He's biting his lip and smiling a little, and the smile grows wider when he looks up at me.

"Hi, beautiful," he says, sitting up straighter and swiping at his hair, moving his laptop to the desk.

"Hi yourself." I lean against the doorway and look down at my feet, but I can't hide the goofy grin.

"Done studying?"

"Yeah...actually, I didn't get much done."

"Hmm." He scoops something crunchy out of a crinkly plastic bag on the bed, and into his mouth.

I move closer, squinting. "What are you eating?"

He holds up the bag, grinning, and I wrinkle my nose when I recognize the pork rinds they sell in the vending machines in the student center. "Oh, gah...gross."

"What? You don't like them?"

"Um. No." I step quickly over to his fridge and haul it open. I spot a bag of miniature Snickers and grab a handful. "Now _this_ is a little bit more like it." I close the fridge with my foot and walk over to the bed, watching as he inhales a handful of his own disgusting snack.

"What?" he mumbles, his mouth full, clearly noticing my look of disgust.

I shake my head, laughing and dropping the Snickers on his desk. I grab one and peel the wrapper off as I settle in beside him, curling my legs under me. "Just tell me this, and be honest."

He swallows, and lays his hand over his heart. "Always."

"Is there ever a time when you're not hungry?"

He chuckles, holding his hand out palm-up, and I roll my eyes and drop a Snickers into it. "Not really," he says. He's quiet for a minute, letting the chocolate melt on his tongue. "When..." He frowns, and I can tell he's struggling with whether to tell me something.

I lower myself down so that I'm laying on my side facing him, still chewing my candy. I reach forward and touch his cheek, still hesitant because this is so new; his face goes soft and he leans down to give me a chocolatey kiss, and I have to mentally kick myself, to quell the stupid fluttering of my heart. "When I was sick," he says, settling his hand on my waist and propping himself up with his other hand, "Some of the medicine they gave me, it made my taste buds...kind of dead."

"Like, you couldn't taste food?"

He shakes his head. "Nope. Not for about a year. Everything tasted like cardboard. I wasn't sure if my sense of taste would ever come back. And then, when it finally did..." He pauses to run a hand through my hair, which I've just pulled out of its braid. "Well, I guess I never took it for granted again."

I nod, slipping my own hand onto his waist as his settles on my shoulder. "I guess I'd be pigging out all the time, too," I say. "Although, I have to say, I don't know where you put it all." I pinch his midsection just to make my point; he has practically no fat on his body, but plenty of lean muscle.

He shrugs. "I work it off," he says, leaning down to kiss me again.

It's different this time. His hand drifts from my shoulder to the back of my neck, and he draws me in close for a series of deep kisses. I feel his teeth grazing my jaw, my earlobe, and I sigh deeply, pulling his mouth back to mine. He hooks his fingers into the collar of my shirt and his fingernails graze my bare shoulder; I shiver, and my own hand works its way under his shirt, to skate across the warm skin of his back.

This has surprised me the most: the sudden heat and intensity of him. The way he gives affection is so spontaneous; maybe some day I will learn to anticipate him, but for now it takes me completely by surprise. We'll be talking innocently, a safe non-sexual topic, and then suddenly, breathlessly kissing; we'll be eating pizza with books open all around us (as happened this past Sunday while I was studying for an exam), and suddenly he'll be pinning me up against the couch, hands under my shirt.

His warm, affectionate ways are such a novelty, so different from what I'm used to. So different from the cold, calculated intensity of-

He pulls back, breathing heavily. My body has been running on autopilot again; I've been arching into him and raking my hands through his hair without quite meaning to. He seems to sense my mental hesitance, though, and always pulls away just when I would want him to.

Although, I can tell he doesn't want to.

He gives me a shaky smile as I untangle my fingers from his hair; I sigh deeply and push back a little, too.

He sits up and grabs two more candies, throwing one to me; I catch it and grin at him as he says, "Hey, did you know Netflix has the entire series of the British Office?"

I unwrap the candy and pop one in my mouth. "I did not know that."

He nods. "Observe." He taps his laptop to life, tilts it on his desk so we can see the screen, and then settles down again, lying back so we're both on our sides, my back to his front. He drapes one arm over my midsection and uses the other to prop his head up as the series begins to play.

I rest my own head in the crook of my elbow, leaning back into him. It has been so long since I've had a warm, comforting presence like this. Someone who will not push me. Someone who's content to just be. With me.

We relax together as darkness falls outside, the sharp autumn wind blowing the browning leaves against the windowpane, and we shake with silent laughter from time to time. The glow from the computer screen grows brighter and brighter, and he kisses my face and the side of my throat as my eyelids slide down, and down, into a dreamless sleep.

"Psst. Hey."

There's a ticklish sensation around my belly button, and I squirm up out of a deep sleep, a smile pulling at my lips.

"Katniss..."

"Mm?" I open my eyes to find that Peeta's laptop has gone into screen-saver mode. The room is quiet and still, and his hand has settled heavily against my waist, his fingertips lightly brushing my midsection where my shirt has ridden up.

"We fell asleep," he mumbles, obviously having just woken up himself. "It's 10."

"Oh crap." The last shuttle leaves for Portland at 9:45. "How am I going to get home..." I close my eyes again and rub them with the heels of my hands.

He's quiet for a few seconds, and then: "You could stay here."

I bite my lip, and roll onto my back to look at him. He keeps his hand lightly on my belly. "I could."

"You could." He leans down to kiss me, very lightly on the lips. I shift my body closer to him; his hand tightens just a bit. "You could take the early shuttle back in the morning."

"I don't have anything to sleep in." I look directly into his eyes. I'm not testing him, exactly; I just want to see what he'll say.

"I could dig up some clothes that might fit you. Well, almost." He shrugs. He said it without hesitating.

And so, I don't hesitate when I say, "Okay. I'll stay."

He finds an old baseball shirt for me to wear. _Mellark, 19_, it says, bright yellow lettering on a blue background. He hands me a matching pair of shorts that look huge. I head down to the girls' bathroom at the far end of the hall to change; I think of stopping by Annie's room, but her door is closed and I reason that she's probably asleep.

The shirt's sleeves hang to my elbows and the neckline is huge enough to hang off of one shoulder if I'm not careful; I have to roll up the waistband of the shorts three times, but I finally get them to stay up. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror: I look like a child in the too-big clothing, hair mussed and sticking up in odd patches, face carefully blank.

I ask myself why I'm being so modest, with him. Some would say, _prudish_. Actually, just one person would say that. One person I hope doesn't venture down from the third floor, tonight. But he's made himself scarce, lately; even our Friday nights are a thing of the past, now that the evenings have grown cold.

I don't bother showering, since I don't have my shampoo with me; I attempt to fix my hair by finger-combing, but give up in despair and pad back down the hallway in my socks and bare legs, carrying my clothes and underwear from the day in a ball at my side, glad I don't run into anyone.

There's a sticky note on his door when I get back. _Showering, be right back_. I pull it off of the door, smiling, and let myself in.

I'm kneeling by the window, looking out at the deserted campus and watching the wind sway the half-bare branches against a cloudy night sky when he returns.

"Oh my god," he says, and I startle and turn to him. "You look adorable."

He's leaning on a pair of crutches in the doorway, shower tote dangling from one hand as he swings the door closed with the other. He's dressed in a pair of pajama bottoms and nothing else. I'm distracted by the sight of his bare chest, all lean muscle and a smattering of hair a shade darker than on his head, water still dripping from the ends of his hair into the towel he has slung around his neck, some escaping to drip down his front...

My mouth is hanging open, I'm sure it is. I'm so distracted that I don't notice, right away, that the left leg of his pajamas is tied off into a knot just below the knee. It's the first time I've seen him without his prosthesis.

He knows it; he's biting his lip nervously. Though I can't help my eyebrows raising, and a slight hesitation, I smile quickly at him, to let him know it's all right. I walk over, lean up on tiptoe and kiss him in the corner of his mouth. My spot.

I turn and plop myself down on his bed, settling in cross-legged. "I'm tired," I declare.

He visibly relaxes and drops his tote just inside the door, pulling himself over to his desk and spreading the towel over the back of the chair. He flops down on the bed beside me, propping the crutches against the wall and pulling himself up until his back is against the wall.

I can't help it. My eyes are drawn to that tied-off pant-leg. I feel my forehead wrinkle as I imagine what it means. Peeta, sick. Peeta, dying. The thought that he came so close to losing his life, before I ever met him.

He sees my frown, and reaches out to cover my hand with his.

I look up, and anxiety bubbles up in me so quickly that I blurt the first question I can think of.

"Does it hurt?" It comes out in a whisper. I have never asked him about his leg, directly, since that first day we talked. Not that I haven't wanted to, but I've always felt that he must be sick of people asking him, sick of having to talk about it.

I'm worried that he'll roll his eyes at my question, that he'll be annoyed. But instead, he smiles like he's relieved. "Not usually," he says, and he squeezes my hand. "Not any more."

My frown grows deeper, and I reach up and caress his face with my palm. Leaning forward, I move closer until my forehead is resting against his. His hand comes up and cups my face, mirroring my gesture. I speak again, in a whisper. "You should never be hurt," I say. I kiss the corner of his mouth again. "Ever."

It's all I could think of to say, and it's pretty lame. But he must not think so; he pulls back a tiny bit, looking at me with something that might be amazement, eyes intense on mine.

Then he pulls me to him and kisses me, hard, crushing his lips against mine, leaning us back so that I'm almost on top of him. The heat is coming off his bare chest in waves...my heart is going like a hammer...it's a series of long, lingering kisses with barely a pause for air between them. He smells like soap and deodorant and faintly of cinnamon. I want to bathe in the scent of him.

I rake one hand through his hair, still wet from the shower. My other hand creeps down his chest and abdomen, coming to rest just above his hipbone. One of his hands creeps up under the baseball jersey; I've taken off my bra, and he smooths the skin of my back before pulling me closer; his other hand creeps lower, down past my hips, coming to rest just above my tailbone.

He lets out a low moan, and I feel it. Him. Against my leg.

And I feel a stab of...something. Fear? Anticipation? Trepidation? I'm not sure. I think it's closer to confusion. Whatever. It causes me to pull back, moving my elbows out to the sides and dislodging his hands; our mouths unlock and I just hover there, over him, for a few seconds.

"Peeta...I...I don't...I mean..."

I expect him to be mad, or annoyed, or at least as confused as I am. But instead, he smiles gently, and reaches up to cup my face as if it's the most fragile china.

"I know," he says.

He kisses the tip of my nose.

"You're not ready," he says. "I get it. I'm not sure I'm ready, either."

I stare at him, open-mouthed. I can't help it. Finally, he reaches up with one arm and kind of gathers me in, and I settle down with my head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, just underneath his collarbone, my arm draped over him. I am speechless. I've never been...so...

I don't even have a word for it.

_Comfortable_, I guess.

He goes on, "That's not what I meant, when I asked you to stay. I hope you know that."

"I do." I choke it out.

"So let's just...sleep, okay?"

I nod against his chest.

"...And kiss a little. I really like that."

I grin up at him, craning my neck. "Okay. Kiss a little, then sleep."

"Deal."

...

But we don't sleep.

Because 15 minutes later, there's a commotion in the hall, a pounding noise followed by a female's scream, long and drawn-out.

Peeta is sitting bolt upright in a snap; I'm frozen with fear against the wall. This is too much like when Prim and I used to hear Mom. When we'd have to lock our door against her. When she'd pound on the door, screaming at us to _help her, for god's sake, help her_.

He's up and away from me as I'm still swimming back up through memories; he grabs his crutches just as there is a loud pounding on his door; I ball the sheets in my hands and press them against my lips as he hauls himself toward the door.

It's Johanna. "Peeta. It's Annie."

That's all she says, but it seems to be enough. "Grab my phone," he tells me over his shoulder, as he follows Johanna into the hallway.

I pull the sheets away from my mouth and take a few deep, shuddering breaths, then untangle my legs from the blanket, grab Peeta's phone off his desk and follow him into the hallway.

Annie is kneeling on the floor about halfway down the hallway, face buried in her hands, knuckles bloody. There is a fist-sized dent in the wall, just above her. Peeta is kneeling beside her and has his arms locked around her, trying to control her repetitive rocking, rocking, back and forth, but all he's doing is rocking with her. He's got his mouth right next to her ear, saying something in a quiet, calm voice, the way he always is with her, and as I walk closer, I think I can hear him telling her, "Not real. Not real, Annie. This is not real." Over and over.

She can't hear him, because she's uttering this continuous, broken-sounding keening. She just keeps rocking. Everyone is out of their rooms and in the hallway now, and they're all watching Annie and Peeta, and no one knows what to do.

Gale is there, at the other end of the hallway, just inside the stairwell, with several people from his floor. He's glaring at me, right at me.

Peeta looks over his shoulder, finds me. Tells me, "Call Finn, okay?" His voice is calm, but his eyes are wide and frantic.

I back a short distance down the hallway and find Finn in his contacts. I block one ear as it starts ringing, since Annie's keening has risen to near-screaming again. Finn answers with a noncoherent mumble. I stutter, "Finn. It's Kat. We're having a...problem...with Annie, here."

There's a pause; I think he can hear her screaming through the phone. Then he says, "I'll be right there," and hangs up.

I turn around and Peeta is still talking to Annie. "Not real. Not real..."

"What the fuck?" Gale is shouting, glaring down at Annie and Peeta, now. Johanna steps toward him, places a hand on his shoulder and gently shoves him back, shaking her head.

I back further down the hallway, stumble my way down the stairs and stand trembling on the stairwell just inside the entrance, waiting for Finn so I can let him in.

I can still hear her.

...

It's 2AM. Finn has her. He arrived in a flurry of squealing tires; he tossed his keys over his shoulder and gathered Annie up like she was a ragdoll, talking gently into her ear until she was calm again. I've never seen anything like it; she just melted into him like she was drowning, and he was the air.

Peeta and another guy from the floor parked Finn's car a few blocks away while he stayed with Annie.

Now Peeta and I are huddled back under his blanket together, my head again planted in its new favorite spot on his chest.

"When Annie was 12," he says, "Her uncle started molesting her when he would visit their family every weekend."

My mouth drops open. "Oh. My god."

"When she was 14," he goes on, "She finally got up the courage to tell her parents about it. And...they didn't believe her."

I raise my head up and look him in the eye. "They _what?"_

His expression is calmly resigned. "They didn't believe her. But, well, she took matters into her own hands, and called the police herself. And funny enough, they _did_ believe her. And the guy went to jail."

I lay my head back down.

"And...this past weekend, he got out."

I don't say anything to that. There's nothing to say.

...

It's 4AM, and I'm telling him, in a low, ragged whisper, what I should have told Annie. What I would have told her, if I'd known how to be any kind of friend.

I'm telling him about Mom, and her withdrawals, and how she'd pound on our door begging for help, but we didn't know how to help her. How that felt.

And now, how I always help Hamish when he gets into trouble. Now that I know how to help. Even though he doesn't deserve it. And maybe she didn't, either.

I'm not even sure Peeta's awake to hear this. I'm not sure, until I feel him plant a soft kiss on the top of my head, and gather me closer in with his warm arms.

We both sleep very soundly through all of our classes the next day.

...

How_ the hell _did I let myself get talked into this?

"It's too much. I'm gonna take it off." I can barely squeak out the words. I'm standing before the full-length mirror on my bedroom door. It's Halloween, and of course I waited until last night to worry about a stupid costume for the stupid idiotic dance, hoping that Peeta would forget about said stupid dance.

Not only did he not forget, he talked all of our friends into going to the stupid dance too. Including Madge. Including Finn and Annie. So now here I am, wearing Prim's dance costume from last year: a black bodysuit. Which was form-fitting on _her_. Last year. A cheap pair of cat-ears on a headband that I bought at the grocery store, and then had to endure Gale laughing at me at the check-out. And I'm letting Madge paint my nose with black makeup, and give me whiskers on my cheeks.

Kat is a cat. I fucking hate it.

"Don't you dare. You look hot." That's Prim. She's bouncing excitedly on my bed behind me.

"Hasn't your vampire entourage gotten here yet?" She's going out trick-or-treating with the girls from school tonight; Rue's brother Thresh is picking her up any minute now. Unsurprisingly, all of them are dressing as vampires; she's decked out in a black cape, pale makeup with blood-red lips, and she's been taking the glow-in-the-dark fangs in and out of her mouth all night long. I'm about ready to chuck them into the trash for her.

When she heard about the dance (from Madge, not me), she'd insisted on coming over to watch me get ready. "And how do you know from hot, anyway? Get out of here..."

"You do, Kat." That's Annie. She's standing to one side and slightly behind me, looking me up and down in the mirror. She's quiet and serious, dressed as Dorothy Gale from Kansas in a blue pinafore and braids. She's been quiet and serious since That Night two weeks ago. For abotu a week afterward, she walked around with a bandaged hand and wouldn't talk to anyone; she only gradually came back to us. I haven't brought it up with her, because I'm a shitty friend, and I don't think anyone else here knows about it.

"Honestly. How do you stay so skinny?" And that would be Madge. Standing on my other side, also looking me up and down in the mirror, but with a small, satisfied grin on her lips. She's touching up my whiskers, and I'm just barely restraining myself from slapping her hand.

I shrug, letting my eyes wander over her costume. She's a Naughty Nurse, the short skirt and low-cut top perfect for showcasing her curves. She's going to have guys crawling over her tonight. Me, on the other hand..."Too skinny for this, maybe?" I shrug again, uncomfortable. The costume hugs against me in a way I'm not used to, emphasizing my smallish breasts instead of smoothing them over. Revealing the flare of my hips instead of downplaying it. Clinging to every contour of leg and arm that's usually hidden by loose-fitting shirts and jeans.

I look like the frigging Catwoman.

"No way. You have curves in _all_ the right places. And none of the wrong ones." Madge throws her arm around me. "You are not getting out of this one."

"Please." I'm whining now.

"Trust me. Peeta is going to _fall down dead _when he sees you."

Annie nods beside me, a small smile finally making its way onto her face. She looks happy and excited, for the first time in weeks. And that's what finally convinces me to go along.

….

Peeta is a pirate.

I rap on his door while Annie ducks into her room with Finn. There's silence for a few seconds, and I wonder whether he's even there.

And then, from just inside the door I hear a loud, "Arrrrrrr..." followed by cackling laughter. I frown. And then he opens the door, and I get it.

He's in full pirate regalia. I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I take him in: red bandana on hair, check. Eye patch (a fucking eye patch!), check. Puffy shirt: double check.

Enthusiastic and way-too-excited smile: check and check.

_Crap_. Madge was right; I am not getting out of Halloween easily.

He's still cackling at first, obviously cracking himself up. "There you are, I was just about to call…" Then he really sees me.

His sentence stops dead. He goes entirely still and stares, pushing the patch up off of his eye and into his hair, trailing his eyes up and down me. He doesn't appear to be breathing.

"…Meow?" I say it as deadpan as I can, scowling, so he'll get the full effect of my non-enthusiasm.

"Wow. Hi. That's a…" He takes another look up and down and runs his hand over his face, covering his mouth before letting it drop to his side. "That's a nice…uh…"

There's a long pause. "Costume?" I finally finish for him.

"Yeah." His voice has lost every scrap of joviality, and my body flushes warm. He takes a step forward and puts his arms around me; my heart starts hammering. "Costume. You look…holy shit, is this a tail?"

_Fuck_. I forgot about the tail. _Of all the stupid... _I feel a blush creep over my face. Never have I felt so foolish. "Yeah. Prim made me wear it. I'm gonna take it off."

I start to reach back to undo the safety pin, but his hands get there first. "No, no, leave it." His hands are warm, gripping my waist low, just above the swell of my hips. "It's cute." His hands roam lower, and I find myself leaning into his touch. Body and mind are totally out of sync. "Who did your whiskers?" This is said into the skin of my shoulder, his lips lightly brushing the exposed skin.

I shiver when his breath hits me and try to wriggle out of his grip, try to give my better sense some control here, but he's not budging. "Madge. It's too much, right? I'm gonna take it off," I say for a second time.

"No," he breathes. His lips close over the skin at the base of my neck, and I breathe in and out in a quick sigh that's almost a moan. "You know…we don't have to go to this thing. We could just…dance here."

"There's no music here."

"A minor technicality."

I laugh, pushing away just enough to see his face. "This was your idea, going to this thing. Don't tell me I put on a stupid Halloween costume for nothing."

He just looks at me, his eyes wide and intense…and then he surges forward, one hand cupping my thigh just below my backside and the other sweeping up my back to steady me. I gasp into his mouth and snake my arms around his neck, pressing against him as my skin pulses with heat. I go up on my toes to get a better angle at his lips, deliciously firm, and he wraps both arms around my waist to pull me closer, his tongue pushing at my lips, and...

And I feel him, very distinctly, hardening against my hip. He doesn't make an effort to pull away, this time, although he has to know I've noticed. He just threads his fingers into my hair and kisses me harder.

I feel a surge of warmth that has nothing to do with being embarrassed or confused, this time. Very cautiously, I move against him...just an increase in pressure, really, and then a slight nudge to one side, so he is more centered against me.

We both settle. Like two puzzle pieces, we fit.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Get a room, you two!"

My entire body goes rigid and I jump, dropping my arms and attempting to push away, but Peeta merely smiles, eyes glazed, and yells, not taking his eyes off me, "I already have a room, Johanna. It's right here." There are black smudges on his cheeks and nose, from my makeup.

"Well go use it, then! I don't care to witness any more dry humping this evening. I've already toured the goddamn third floor." There's a pause, and then, "Nice costume, Everdeen." My head whips around to look at Johanna; she's paused, just outside her door, and is looking me up and down with a smirk on her face that says she's admiring more than my costume.

My mouth falls open. She laughs out loud, shakes her head, and mutters something about _youth being wasted on the young_. Then she slams her door behind her.

I bite my lip and look down at the floor. Holy shit. I've never been so embarrassed in all my life. She basically called us out on exactly what we were doing. If I thought my face was red before...

And then I see it. His bad leg, poking out from his short football-pants that are obviously supposed to be pirate breeches. For some reason, he's removed the flesh-colored covering that usually masks his prosthetic leg, leaving a bare, metallic, decidedly non-lifelike..."What's that?" I ask.

He looks down, and I catch him smiling sheepishly. "Oh, that. What's a pirate without a peg-leg?"

"A peg..." I raise an eyebrow and give him my best _are-you-fucking-crazy _look. "You are unbelievable."

He grins. "But in a good way, right?"

A door opens down the hall, and Annie and Finn appear, looking rumpled but cheerful.

"Oh my..." Annie breathes, when she sees Peeta's leg.

"Dude! Way to commit to the costume," Finn cheers.

"Likewise..." Peeta nods at Finn, who is wearing a dog collar, a furry vest and shorts, and nothing else. (I ogle a little bit; I'm only human, after all.)

Finn holds out his arms, giving us a better look. "Just call me Toto." Annie covers her mouth and laughs.

I grab Peeta's hands as we walk down the stairs, pulling our coats on as we go. "Do not leave me alone at this thing." My voice is more nervous than I'd like. "I still hate dances."

He stops me at the bottom of the stairs, pulling me close. "Don't worry," he whispers. "I'm not letting you out of my sight." He winks at me, then pulls the patch back over his eye.

...

He's as good as his word. Though we're bombarded by people all night in the darkened student center, laughing at Peeta's costume, wanting to pose for pictures, wanting to talk...he doesn't let go of my hand. We spend most of the night cycling from group to group, and Peeta doesn't ask me to dance once.

I find myself disappointed at that. I told him I hated it, and he's just respecting my wishes, but...damn. He could try.

He only leaves to get me some punch, which comes in red solo cups and smells a little too fruity.

"They really didn't have any soda?"

"No, the jerk at the table was really rude about it..."

Finn bursts in on us as I'm taking a long sip of orange-flavored punch; I'm really thirsty. "Guys, you have to dance with us!" Finn has been drawing admiring glances from every female dance attendee all night, but you can tell that as far as he's concerned, Annie's the only girl in the room. He's got her by the hand, and her face is happily flushed. Her hair is coming out of its braids and her makeup is smudged, but she's smiling widely, and I instantly relax to see it.

I wrinkle my nose at Finn. "_Love Shack_, Finn? Get lost..."

Peeta shrugs at him, pointing to me and grimacing apologetically. Finn waves us off and pulls Annie back out on the dance floor. I crane my head around, looking for Madge and draining my cup. I spot her across the room, whispering in Di's ear; they're in the middle of a group from Di and Mitch's Poli-Sci class. It's weird that I don't see her as much, now. I saw her almost every day when we were in high school, and then when I worked at the market with Gale. Who knew that, just a year or two later, we'd barely speak once a week...

"You want another drink?" Peeta asks, eyeing my empty cup.

I give it to him, smiling. "Yeah, sure. I'm really thirsty, for some reason." He squeezes my hand and then pushes through toward the refreshment table, again. I kind of fall into a chair and study the crowd for a while, leaning my head into my hand. I can barely tell who anyone is; they're all in costume. Frills and fangs and fake hair spin around me; I have to shake my head to clear it.

"You look ridiculous." The voice is deep and low and right next to my ear; I stiffen and half-turn, and there he is. Gale.

He's not in costume. He's glowering down at me, and suddenly I feel every bit as foolish as I did back at home, in front of the mirror. I had been getting more and more comfortable as I'd seen everyone else's costumes, and realized that mine was nowhere near the most revealing. But now, under his critical gaze, I feel uncomfortably exposed. Almost naked.

I look him up and down, with what I hope is a withering glare. "And if you're so cool, why are you here?"

He gives me a choppy little laugh and looks me up and down as I cross my arms across my chest. "'Cause I didn't quite believe Johanna when she told me about your getup."

"Well, now you've seen for yourself."

"Kinda wish I hadn't. Now I'm gonna be thinking about it all night."

I roll my eyes. "You're disgusting."

"How come you never wore this kind of stuff before?" He kicks my foot gently with the toe of his workboot, but I shift away from him, crossing my legs too. He's standing too close. Not taking the hint, he leans down at me, mouth open to probably deliver another smartass remark. I lean away from him. And he gets That Look on his face.

That half-joking, half-serious _i-want-you _look.

I lean even farther away.

"Everything okay here?" Peeta sets a full cup on the table in front of me, then pulls up another chair to sit beside me. Very close. He locks eyes with Gale, raising his eyebrows.

I grab the cup and chug its contents almost down to the bottom, my mouth suddenly very dry.

Gale backs off a few paces, holding his hands out in front of him. "Fine. Just saying hi to my friend, Kat." He emphasizes the word _friend_, drawing it out in the worst possible way. There is no mistaking his meaning.

Peeta pretends not to notice. "Haven't seen you around lately, man." His voice is calm and jovial, as it has been all night, but I notice that he's gripping his own cup so hard he's indenting the side with his fingertips.

"Well. Some of us have to work for a living." He smirks down at Peeta, then turns back to me. "Plus, I do have other friends I can hang out with."

I finish drinking, and set my drained cup down on the table a bit harder than necessary. "So why don't you go and do that," I say. "Now." My voice is low and stony and sounds a lot steadier than I feel, right now.

He backs off another few paces, shaking his head at me. He nods at my cup. "You might want to take it easy on that stuff."

I frown. "It's just punch, Gale."

He smirks, turning away. "Sure it is. I think your date knows better. I'll see you around."

I turn to Peeta and he's frowning down at his own cup. He sniffs, then takes a sip and turns to me, but I already know what he's going to say. "Um, I don't think this is just punch."

I lower my head into my hands, but I can already feel it: my head is spinning even more than it was before, and my face is flushed.

"Sorry..." he's saying. "I had no idea."

Shit. Shit. Shit. Somebody spiked the punch. I just pounded back I don't know how much of what kind of drink, and the combination of how fast I drank it and the fact that I never, ever drink any more is making me feel very...

...Drunk.

Peeta leans over, his arm around me. "Wanna get out of here?"

I look up and his face is frowning, full of concern, and for some reason this strikes me funny, because of course he doesn't know the reason I don't drink any more, the real reason, and so I giggle a little and then let out a soft hiccough. "Yes. Yes I do."

He nods, and we get up from the table, and I stumble a little against him as we leave through a side door, causing laughter to bubble up in my throat and escape, a bit too loudly.

Fuck. I'm drawing attention to myself. I glance around to make sure Gale didn't hear me, and I catch Madge's eye instead. She's holding one of the solo cups too, still standing with her group about 20 feet away from me, and she frowns, a question in her eyes. _You okay?_ she mouths.

I nod and point to the exit, and she nods back, holding her thumb and pinkie up against her face in the universal call-me gesture.

I look back at Peeta, but he's watching me too closely to see anything else. Concern is pulling his face into a frown._ I never see him frown_, I muse as we exit into the cool (okay, cold) evening. _He's always happy. That can't be right_.

"Damn, forgot our coats. Be right back." He grips my upper arms, and I realize that I've been swaying in place without realizing it. "Don't move." He points a finger in my face, then his face breaks into a smile and he starts chuckling. I'm not sure how much punch Peeta ingested, himself.

"'Kay." I lean up against the outside wall and close my eyes, hugging my arms around myself. Fuck, it's freezing. Fall is definitely over. This catsuit is not doing me any favors right now.

I must start to fall asleep, because the next thing I know, I'm on my elbows in the crunchy leaves, dirt and cold grass. "Ugh," I say. How the hell did I get on the ground? I honestly don't remember falling. I start to brush myself off.

Peeta reappears with the coats, but drops them as soon as he sees me. "Oh, no. Are you okay?" He reaches down with one hand to help me up, steadying himself against the wall with the other. I grip his hand and pull, trying to haul myself back up, but I'm not very coordinated and I end up pulling too hard, and he comes down on top of me instead.

"Whoops." Now I've got the giggles. He's really heavy and his knee is poking into my thigh. His hand reached out to catch himself as he fell, but he caught me instead, and he's nearly touching my boob. For some reason this makes me laugh so hard I can barely breathe. I look up at his face; he's fighting back a laugh too, and his hand hasn't moved, his bandana is askew, and that damn eye patch is working its way down onto his face again, and that's what really causes me to lose it.

I'm howling, and I'm not sure I could stop even if I wanted to.

His chuckle has grown into a full belly laugh, and he very carefully eases himself up off of the ground (and off of me), and I'm instantly cold again. He carefully places the patch over his eye again, and deliberately reaches down. "Ahem. May I have this dance, milady?"

My laughs have tapered off into giggles again, and I manage to get to my feet this time. "_Lady?"_ I ask, and I know my voice is still a bit too loud. I've got to calm down. I stoop to fetch our coats, and turn back to him as we're pulling them on. Or trying to. I can't seem to work the arm holes. "Aren't you a pirate?"

"Yep," he says, stepping behind and pulling my coat up for me.

I nod, making the gesture way too large and slow, but unable to do any better. "So wouldn't I be, like, your wench?"

He busts up laughing again, leaning over and placing both hands on his knee, before popping up again and offering me his arm. "Well. You don't really ask a wench to dance."

"True." I hiccough again, and trip a little as we start across the quad.

"You're a real lightweight, you know that?"

"I believe the term is 'cheap date,' sir."

"Whatever. You are one."

We walk along in silence. My giggles have subsided at this point, and I find myself gripping his arm more and more tightly. Any residual warmth from the alcohol is lifting, too, the farther we walk, and soon I'm shivering again.

Once we reach Robie, he pauses to lean up against the outside wall, pulling me close enough so that I'm tucked inside his coat. He closes the coat behind me so that I'm enveloped in warmth and the smell of him. I moan and lay my cheek against his chest. "That's fantastic. Just don't move."

He laughs. "Wouldn't dream of it. Cold?"

"Not any more." I shift a little and rest my chin on his chest, but I can't get the angle right and his chin pokes me in the eye.

I start to laugh again, but he reaches down and stops me with a kiss. As always, he's surprised me, but I find myself responding quickly, going up on my toes so I can lean up into his mouth. His tongue catches on my teeth and his arms drift around my back. My head starts to spin, again. I can't feel him like I normally do. The sides of his coat have fallen open, and now all I feel is cold.

I pull back, dazed, a little dizzy. I fumble around for his hand, and my own hand grazes the front of his pants. And there he is again. How can he, in this cold wind...

"Sorry," I mumble, finding his hand at last and leaning back a bit, pulling him vaguely toward the entrance to the dorm.

He shakes his head at me, mouth slightly open, and almost lurches forward, following me in.

As soon as we're inside the door, he has me up against the wall again. Insistent, pressing at me. I still feel dazed, and a little out of control.

_Uh-oh._

We pause again halfway up the staircase, and again at the top. We have an awful time actually getting into his room. We keep stopping. I lose track of where his hands are.

_Warning bells._

We're closing the door behind us, leaving behind the echoey quiet of the hallway for a deeper silence. "Have I told you," he whispers, "How incredibly gorgeous you look tonight?"

I shake my head, unable to speak. He's tearing at the zipper on the back of the bodysuit, his hands on my back are freezing cold and I shiver. The cold air hits my bare torso-_that was fast_-as the costume falls away.

My hands are moving of their own accord, pulling his shirt up and off over his head, the eye patch and bandana going with it. I still can't feel anything.

His lips attack the skin of my throat, sucking and biting, and I lose all semblance of control over myself. _This is going to happen now,_ a small, still-sober voice insists.

I pull back, framing his face with my two hands, trying to focus on his eyes in the dark. I don't know what I'm going to say. _Please...say the right thing_. "You...you want me, right?" No, that's not what I wanted to say or how I wanted to say it, my voice small and frail like a child's.

He stares at me, breath coming hard, eyes heavy-lidded. "Yes," he breathes, and kisses me again. One of his hands ghosts along the side of my breast, the other tucking into the elastic seam of my panties. Pressing me into him, again.

I close my eyes and see Gale, smiling knowingly down at us as I drain the liquid in my red cup. _I think your date knows better,_ he'd said.

_You're so easy to convince after a few drinks_: he said that, too. Tonight? No...But he'd said it with the same knowing smirk.

_Labor Day_. The way Gale had looked at me. _Meet me upstairs? _Like he knew what I'd do, before I did. _Here. Drink this_.

Suddenly I'm pushing away and Peeta's stumbling back. I'm grappling at the body suit and pulling it back up over me. "Please don't," I manage to say. I fumble with the doorknob.

"Wait," Peeta says. "Katniss. What..."

"Don't," I say, and it's a sob. "Please." My coat, I've left it. It's on the floor. I don't care. I slip out of the room and close the door behind me, much too hard, more like I'm slamming it.

I collapse to the floor in the bathroom, cover my face with my hands, lean back against the cold tiles. And I finally cry.


	7. Just a Little Rain

**A/N So this one was a little delayed. For some reason, I had a really hard time with this chapter. Much like Katniss, I couldn't get the words out. Hopefully the content will make it worth the wait... *nudge nudge wink wink***

**A big thank you to everyone who has favorited, followed and reviewed. Those little messages in my inbox make me smile every time. **

**Know what else makes me smile? **_**Sever**_**, by DandelionSunset. Latest chapter = HOT. Do you think if we ask her really nicely, she'll update again? :)**

**Couple of notes: All landmarks mentioned are actual Portland landmarks. And **_**Rising Cairn **_**by Celeste Roberge actually sits in the sculpture garden at the art museum. Google it; it's a beautiful piece, but you haven't really seen it until you've seen it in the snow. **

**K bye**

Chap 7: Just a Little Rain

_You are the sunlight in my growing...so little warmth I've felt before._

_-LedZeppelin, The Rain Song_

...

The tile is very, very cold, but I don't move for a long time.

I just keep my hands pressed over my face and listen to the water dripping somewhere in the bathroom, the repetitive _plunk-plunk-plunk _echoing off the tiles. The fluorescent light is blinding, so I keep my eyes squeezed shut and try not to think about what just happened.

What did I do? And why?

My head is still spinning from whatever was in that cup back at the dance; the tears have slowed to a leak. I never zipped the stupid bodysuit all the way up in the back, and I'm shivering, and I don't know where to go or what to do. And I have no way to get home.

Finally, the door to the hallway squeals open, and I begin to swipe at my face with the backs of my hands; they come away black, and I remember my makeup. I struggle to pull myself up off of the floor and find that I'm very stiff, and I've only started to rise when I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, settling me back on the floor. Someone is kneeling in front of me.

I open my eyes. It's Annie.

For some reason, the sight of her brings on the tears again. "I'm sorry," I squeak out, but she just gives me a small smile and holds out her arms. I fall into them, putting my arms around her waist and letting her pull me forward; her hair is loose now and smells like vanilla and vodka, and her blue pinafore is sweaty from dancing and stained down the front.

"Peeta's been pacing the hallway for a while now," she tells me in a quiet voice.

I only sigh.

"You don't have to tell me what happened. But...he's really worried. Kat..." And she pulls away and looks me in the face again. "He's a _really_ good guy."

"I know."

"And he_ really _cares about you."

"I know."

"I mean,_ really_." She shakes her head. "There aren't a lot, like him."

I frown as her face takes on the far-away expression I've noticed so often in the past. "Annie, I'm sorry," I say suddenly. "I'm sorry I didn't know...about..." And I find that I don't know how to say it: that I'm sorry about what was done to her, when she was too young to fight back.

Her eyes snap back to me, and instead of pain or anger, I see only gentleness. "Well, how could you know?" she asks. "I never told you."

I smile. "Well, I never asked."

"Well, why would you?" She sits back. "I'm not good at...telling people things."

"Neither am I." We look at one another for a moment, and then both start in with a fit of giggles at the same moment. It's just so ludicrous, Dorothy and the Catwoman sitting here in a dorm bathroom, learning how to be friends.

She grabs my hands and we just...laugh, our voices echoing loudly. Anyone standing outside is going to think there is an army of crazy people in here. And to say it feels good is an understatement. "But," I breathe, finally coming down, "You told Peeta."

She frowns, looks down. "Yeah. Well. You just sort of...end up_ telling _Peeta things. You know what I mean?"

I nod. "Yeah. I know exactly what you mean."

She bites her lip, eyeing my costume. "Um...we should probably get you zipped up."

"Oh yeah." My hands go to the back of the costume, and I zip it up myself as far as I can. "Can't wait to get this thing off. Knew Halloween was a bad idea. My face is probably a mess, too."

"Well, I didn't want to say anything. But...yeah."

We dissolve into laughter again, and she helps me up, gets me dressed, gets my face washed. As we're leaving the bathroom, she catches my hand again.

"You know that stuff you're always not telling people?"

I look at the floor. "Yeah..."

"You should tell him."

"I know." I pull my hand away. "I will. I just...it's hard." I inch away, but manage to smile at her. "Thanks, Annie. Really."

She nods. "Of course. And Kat..." She flashes me a mischievious grin as the opens her door; I catch a glimpse of Finn lounging on her bed. "Nice tail."

"Oh Jesus." My hand flies back and I fiddle with the safety pin holding the stupid thing. "Shut up."

She giggles madly as the door closes behind her. I roll my eyes, finally getting the damn thing off of my butt and rolling it up in my hand, intending to dispose of it the first chance I get. Halloween can officially suck it.

Peeta's door is cracked, and I knock softly before pushing it the rest of the way open. He's sitting on his desk chair, leaning forward with elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands. I clear my throat softly and his head shoots up.

"Oh god, Katniss," he says, and grabs for the crutches again.

"No. Stop," I tell him and go over to him instead. "Don't get up." I kneel in front of him, shuffling forward on my knees until my arms can wrap around his waist.

His hands rest on my shoulders. "I feel like such an idiot."

I shake my head. "No, you're not. It's me. It's-"

"But I should have talked to you, I should have asked you. I just-I wanted-"

"I know." I lean forward and kiss his mouth; when I pull back he's frowning, confused. _Shit, who can blame him? _"Me too. But...it's more..." How to say this? "It's more complicated for me. More than it has to be, I guess."

He sits back in his chair, frames my face with his hands before smoothing my hair back. His frown has deepened, and he opens and closes his mouth several times, trying to get the next question out. Finally: "...Is it Gale?"

I let out a very deep sigh, reaching for his hands and holding them in my own. "Yes and no."

He just raises and eyebrow at me.

"We were never 'boyfriend-girlfriend.' But...yeah, there's a history. And he..."

"...Clearly doesn't want to let it go."

I frown. "It's..." I'm suddenly very uncomfortable on my knees, and I raise myself up and onto the bed, easing my hands out of his grasp. "I just...I've tried this before. And it didn't go well."

"What didn't go well?"

"Um." God, I really am tongue-tied, and I have no idea which words to use to explain my feelings about all this. I'm not sure I know them, myself. "A relationship, I guess?" I look down, tracing the criss-cross pattern on the bedspread with my fingers. My voice is breaking. "Sex, I guess?" I feel my face grow red, and I can't look up. "It just...I tried, and it ended up being something I didn't want. Something that...well, kind of sucked, actually. For me. And...I kind of decided, well, if that's what having a relationship means, then I didn't ever want to have a boyfriend or anything. So...I didn't." I pluck furiously at a loose thread in the bedspread. "Um. Until now."

He's silent for so long that I start to panic. I've weirded him out. He's wondering what would be the politest way of getting me the hell out of his room. But when I look up, he's motionless and his eyes are fixed on me with such intensity and sorrow. And when he speaks, it's barely a whisper: "...Did he hurt you?"

The quiet fervency of his voice makes it clear that if I don't answer carefully, he's going to march up the stairs and kick Gale's ass, one leg or no. "No, no, god, nothing like that," I tell him in a rush, and a little too loudly. "I was definitely in on it, too. Believe me. It was just..."

I sigh, and settle back against the wall. "I was about fifteen. Things were bad at home. Really not safe. It was just before me and Prim were taken away; we were sleeping over at the Hawthornes' a lot. His mom always had room for us. Made room." I glance up, and then quickly down; he's frowning at me with such intense concentration, I feel like his eyes might burn me. "And well...Hazelle worked a lot, back then, and it was right around the time that Gale's little brother was born, so she was distracted. And we were by ourselves a lot. And well...two teenagers under one roof. You know."

"Oh yeah. I know." This time when I look up, one corner of his mouth is pulled up into a wry grin, and I smile back, relieved.

"Gale used to sneak beer or vodka or whatever he could find in his mom's fridge. One of the upstairs apartments was empty, and we used to hang out up there and drink. We thought we were hot shit." I laugh a little, at the memory. "We used to kiss, too. Once in a while. And one day..." I shrug. Trying not to remember. "It just happened. And...I hated it. I was drunk, and I felt out of control, and like I didn't know what was happening. But I never...I mean, I never stopped it. I just kind of let it happen."

"That's why you don't drink." He says it softly. He hauls himself up and out of his seat, then twists around and pulls himself up onto the bed, scooting back until he's next to me. His arm is flush against mine, but he doesn't move to touch me.

"Yeah," I say, and laugh. "It kind of makes me...lose control of myself." I hold up my hand, indicating the doorway of his room, where our earlier encounter had taken place. "As you saw."

He nods. "So what did you tell him? After?"

"I..." I shift myself a little, so our bodies are touching, not just our arms. "I told him that we had made a mistake and that I didn't ever want it to happen again. And...he told me he loved me, and wanted to be with me."

"Wow."

"Yeah." And the rest of what I have to say comes out in a rush, my voice shaking. "And he kept telling me that. Every time. And every time, I would tell myself that I wouldn't let it happen again. But then...I would kind of just...I just let it go on, because...this is going to sound dumb, but I almost felt like I _owed_ it to him..."

"_Katniss." _I feel him watching me._ "_This happened again?"

I can't look at him. "His family did so much for us. For me and Prim." I can't stop now, and I hate myself for what I'm telling him. "I owed them so much. We would have starved, if his family hadn't helped us. Who knows what would have happened, if we hadn't had a safe place to sleep. Some of the guys my mom used to bring home." I shiver, remembering. "So I just...and every time, I hated it. And I hated myself."

The last word comes out as a sob, and I feel his arm go around me, his hand gripping my shoulder as he pulls me to him. "And I told myself it didn't really matter, what I did with Gale. Because I'd already decided I never wanted a boyfriend, or a husband, or any of it. Ever." I sniff loudly. "I never thought...I never pictured meeting someone...like you. Someone I actually _wanted_-"

"Hold up." He squeezes my shoulders and his arm is shaking. When he speaks again, I realize he's shaking with barely-contained anger. "Back up a sec." He turns to face me, and he's got that look on his face again. That _hold-me-back, I'm about to pummel Gale _look. "So you _told_ him you didn't want him. Didn't want to sleep with him, didn't want anything out of him but friendship."

"Um. Yeah. Many times, actually."

"And he still went ahead and slept with you anyway? When you were _fifteen? _After you'd been drinking?"

I frown, suddenly confused. "Well...yeah. I guess, technically, that's what happened. But it's...god, when you say it like that, it sounds-"

"It sounds like exactly what it was?" He's shaking harder.

I look up at him in a panic. "Wait...no. It's...it's more complicated than that. I never told him no-"

"But you never said yes, did you? And you weren't in total control of yourself. And whatever he may _think_ he feels for you..." He shifts on the bed, wraps his other arm around me. "Jeez. Katniss." He kisses the top of my head, and I feel suddenly very young, and very tired. "How long did all that go on, anyway? If you don't mind my asking."

I stiffen, and he feels it and pulls away. "Until pretty recently, actually." I don't raise my voice above a whisper.

He doesn't move, but his voice is very careful. "Like how recently?"

I gulp. "Uh, Labor Day?" That's the part I'm most ashamed of. That a week before I met this wonderful boy in front of me, I was still...doing whatever it was Gale and I were doing.

"Oh." He sits back a little. "Wow. But still...before we met."

My head shoots up, my eyes wide. "Of course before I met you! What the hell did you think?"

He reaches out and grasps my shoulder. "I didn't think that. I just...god. That shouldn't have happened to you. He shouldn't have-" He shakes himself. "I know he's still your friend, Katniss. But I really don't think I'm going to be able to be around the guy, now, without kicking his ass."

"You shouldn't blame him," I say, plucking at the blanket again. "He really...he loves me. He always said stuff like, 'Everyone expects us to get together,' and 'You know we'll end up together eventually,' and I guess I just didn't contradict him, because..."

I look up again, and he's watching me with one eyebrow raised, a look on his face that's half-indignation, half sadness.

My voice is shaking when I continue. "...Because he was my best friend. And...and I was lonely." I shrug. "And I'd obviously never been in love before. And I had no idea-"

And Peeta is crushing me in a hug. Engulfing me with his arms. Whispering in my ear. "Katniss." The warmth of him is seeping into my bones, again, and the cold of the bathroom tiles is all forgotten. "You deserve more than to just 'end up with' someone. And...you know that you didn't do anything wrong." He pulls away, smoothes his hand down my face and makes me look at him. "You know that. Don't you?"

I shrug again, my eyes wide.

"No one would judge you. For any of this." He's smiling now, and I'm...hardly daring to let myself believe this, but he's not disgusted by me. "And if this is your deep, dark secret...I've gotta say. It's not that dark."

It's so much the mirror of what I said to him, months ago.

He lends me a shirt to sleep in (_Mellark, 19_), and he holds me very gently and very carefully, and I sleep soundly. And as I'm drifting off, I wonder. Where did this boy come from?

And did I actually just tell him I'd never been in love_ before_?

...

The first real cold snap arrives just after Halloween. Prim comes home that Friday wearing her winter coat and scarf, to find Peeta on our sofa, shivering with a mug of hot cocoa.

She snorts at him. "You know, you might be a redneck if you think 30 degrees is cold."

He shoots her a dirty look. "Keep it up. I'll never cook for you again."

I just smile at the two of them from the kitchen. The three of us together has become a new Friday tradition.

Over pizza, he lets it slip that his birthday is on the 7th.

Prim squeals, and I can tell from the look on Peeta's face that he wishes he hadn't said anything. I just watch him with a smile. "If you can wait until next Friday," I tell him, "I know exactly how I want to help you celebrate."

He raises an eyebrow at me. "I can wait," he says.

Later, in the hallway, while Mitch waits in his car outside, I say against his lips, "This is twenty-one for you, right?"

"Yeah." He's a little breathless, his hands lingering carefully at my waist. It's more than obvious that he wants to do more than kiss me.

I pull back, a little. "Are you okay with not going to a bar?"

He dips his head to the side and grins. "Well, Mitch and Finn offered to take me to some place in the Old Port called The Iguana."

I burst out laughing. "Well, if drunk chicks dancing on the bar is really your thing..."

He bites his lip, shakes his head. "I'd rather spend it with you." Leans in and kisses me, pulling me up against him, plunging a hand into my hair and running his tongue along mine.

Mitch honks from the curb.

He pulls away, smiling, and is gone.

...

Friday comes, and we go to dinner at David's with Finn and Annie; Peeta wants to pay but we practically beat his hands away from his wallet. "Your birthday," Finn says. "We pay." They order him a beer with his dinner, but he barely touches it. He does finish two appetizers and a huge plate of lobster mac and cheese all by himself, though. We can only watch him with awe.

After, we walk to the art museum, crossing Monument Square and walking the three blocks through a light snow. Peeta and I hang back and let Finn and Annie enter the museum first. We stop outside the door, just under the awning so we're out of the snow.

There are flakes on his eyelashes, and I run my thumbs over them, smiling. He brushes his hands down the sides of my face, my arms. Clasps my hands. "This is fun."

I nod. I can't speak, but I could watch him forever, grinning in the falling snow.

Admission to the museum is free on Friday nights, but Peeta insists on dropping a little money in the donation box anyway.

His favorite piece is a sculpture by Celeste Roberge called _Rising Cairn_. It's outdoors; we can see it through the floor to ceiling windows that look out on the sculpture garden from the stairwell. It's the figure of a kneeling man rising to his feet, fashioned from strips of corrugated steel; the figure is hollow, and it's filled with round, polished chunks of granite.

Peeta stands with his palms against the glass, looking out on the figure for a long time. Finally he says, "Look at how the snow falls _through_ him."

I stare at him, and then at the sculpture, and think that it's funny how I don't see these things, until he points them out.

...

Prim is still at Hamish's, so Peeta sleeps in my bed that night.

He moans a little as I roll away from him, my eyes closed; his hands unconsciously grasp at me before he remembers to pull away.

He doesn't want to pull away. I don't want to pull away. But I do. I don't know, any more. I don't know why I'm holding back, why I'm not letting this happen.

I'm not letting myself get too close. And it's hurting him. I can see it in the way he frowns and presses his lips together, in the way he stares at my face when he thinks I can't see him. He's so very carefully _not_ pushing me, it's starting to fray the edges of every conversation, every interaction. Every kiss. It's there, waiting. The fear.

...

It's the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and I'm driving to Lewiston with Prim and Hamish again the next day. Finals are coming, and we both have work we should be doing, but we're not doing it.

"Will I see you Monday?"

A sigh. "No. I have to go get another scan. Fuckin pain in the ass."

"I thought you just went?" I try to make my voice casual, not betraying the stab of fear that runs through me.

"Yeah, but the tech fucked up or something. I don't know, I didn't pay close attention to the message, to be honest. Doc wants me to go again." He catches sight of my face. "It's no big deal, I swear. It's happened before. They just messed something up and they need to take another picture." He kisses me. "I'll see you for class Tuesday. Don't be late."

...

But he's not in class, Tuesday.

I text him twice during Seminar and put my phone on silent, holding it under the desk, waiting for a response, but I get none. He's never not answered, before.

I zip my coat all the way up to the top and jog across the freezing quad after class, the dead grass crispy and brown beneath my sneakers. I slip a little on the odd patches of snow remaining from earlier in the month. It's only 3:30 but the sky is already darkening, the quiet of a cold, cloudy evening settling over the campus as I wave to Di and Annie, yelling that I won't be in the caf today and they shouldn't wait for me.

I practically run up the stairs and knock softly at his door. At first there's no answer, and I frown, thinking he must not be there, and wondering where in hell he could be.

Then: "Come in." It's Peeta's voice, but...

I push the door open and the room is dark. He's on his bed, with his back propped against the wall, his posture deflated. He's staring at the opposite wall, hands lying loose in his lap. The expression on his face is carefully blank.

A stab of fear runs through me again, more piercing and immediate than before.

_Something is wrong_.

"Hey," I say. "You weren't in class today, I thought..." What did I think? I can't remember, any more.

He looks at me then, and his eyes are bloodshot and red. He's been crying, or he's been trying to keep himself from crying.

_He needs me_. The thought comes to me in the space of a heartbeat, and what I am going to do next becomes clear. I can't remember, any more, why I was afraid. All I know is that he needs me.

I close and lock the door behind me, and drop my bag at my feet. My coat follows. I cross the room quickly, slipping my sneakers off when I reach the bed and hitching myself up next to him.

"Hey, um..." he starts, but his voice is broken and he has to stop to clear his throat. I crawl closer, and closer, until I am straddling his lap and his face is buried in my chest, just above my breasts, and my hands are in his hair. He only hesitates for a second, and then his arms are around me, pulling me closer.

I reach back and undo my braid, letting my hair fall over us. I kiss the top of his head; he smells like sweaty boy. I kiss his forehead, and the skin underneath his eyes, tasting the tears he has let go. I kiss his ear, and his cheek, and finally, his mouth.

He clutches at me, hungry and desperate. We both are. We sink into devouring kisses; every time he tries to speak, I silence him with my own mouth, until finally he gives up. His hands drift up my back and fumble at the clasp of my bra; I respond by tugging at his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. Mine follows.

The moment my nipples touch his bare chest, I feel a rush of warmth, like burning, buzzing needles traveling down my body. His mouth closes on the top of my shoulder; he sucks on the skin until it stings, and I let out a thin, keening moan.

_Well...this is different_.

We slowly work our way down the wall until he is lying on his back and I am a bit off-centered on top of him. He lets his hands drift up my back and around to the front, watching my eyes as he takes my breasts into his hands. For once, I'm not worried about if they're too small or if they look weird. All I feel is the delicious buzzing warmth shimmering over my skin as he lets his fingers brush over my nipples; all I see is the clouded look in his eyes as I let my own hand wander lower, cupping him fully in my palm, simply unafraid.

He closes his eyes and moans at my touch...but it's not enough. Not today. I trail my fingers up and use my thumb to dig at the button of his jeans. His eyes fly open and he frowns, but I just lean down and kiss him again as the button comes free. I work the zipper free, then tuck my hand down inside.

He gives a shaky sigh as I grasp him, first through, and then underneath his boxers. His hand closes over mine, at first I think to still my movements, and then I realize he's moving with me, showing me what he likes. A smile steals over my face as I let my hand slide over his smooth skin, and the hardness beneath.

This is something new. This slow, languid exploration. He has not made a move, yet, without me leading the way. I have never before been _in charge_, like this; he is letting me decide what and how much and how far and..._oh god._ I don't want this to stop.

We're both breathing heavily. His thumb and forefinger close down on my nipple, and I let out a squeaky moan and grasp him tighter. _This...I want..._ I grab his hand in mine and move it, to rest on the button closing the top of my jeans.

He frowns again, catching my eye and moving in for a quick kiss. As he pulls away, I nod quickly. He props himself up on one elbow, biting down on his bottom lip. His eyes never leaving my face, he pops the button quickly, dips his hand inside my jeans and smooths it around, caressing my hip and then cupping my backside, pulling me close to him in one movement.

My pants slip lower, and suddenly I want to be rid of them. I don't want anything between us. I wriggle my arms around and slide my pants down and off, along with my underwear and socks.

"Oh god..." he breathes. I side one leg in between his, feeling the cold metal where his left knee used to be, but unable to think clearly enough for it to trouble me. He rains relentless kisses over my lips, my jaw, my throat, letting his tongue trail along my skin. His hand smooths up my bare leg, hip, stomach. "You are so beautiful," he whispers.

He runs his hand over my breast again, following it quickly with his lips and teeth. I gasp, a stab of heat causing my legs to clench together.

_I have never. Ever._

I grasp at the waist of his pants, needing them off. Now. I slide them down and he springs free; he crushes my mouth with a kiss just as my hand closes over him again.

And then his hands are on my shoulders, holding me off and away from him; when I open my eyes, his are rolling back, out of focus. "Um...Katniss," he chokes out.

"Yeah?" It's a whisper.

"In..." A shuddering sigh. "In my bag. Front pocket. I think."

I frown, and then, understanding, I slide over him and off the bed, trailing my hand down the inside of his thigh. The chilly air hits me and my nipples shrivel; I run my hands lightly over my upper arms, moving quickly, naked and on tiptoe, over to the corner behind the door, where his bag is laying. I crouch down and rummage in the front pocket for a minute, before I find it.

I stand and spin around and he's watching me, open-mouthed. He looks me up and down as I walk back to the bed, opening the foil packet with my teeth as I go. His voice is barely a squeak when he says, "Who are you and what have you done with Katniss?"

I don't answer; I can't speak. I just crawl back onto the bed; he grabs the foil packet from me and, hitching his jeans further down, rolls the condom on with one hand while pulling me in for a sloppy kiss with the other. This is not the moment to tell him that I've been on the pill since I was fifteen. This is the moment to kiss him back...and I do.

And then I inch closer until I'm on top of him again. We kiss and kiss and I let my legs fall down to the sides, and suddenly we're There.

He doesn't move. He grasps the sides of my face with sweaty palms and looks me in the eye. "Is this what you want?"

I bite my lip. Grab his hands in my own and pull them to my mouth, kissing his fingertips. This beautiful boy is holding himself still, holding himself so carefully back so that I can be sure. So that he doesn't push me. The gentleness fills me with warmth.

"Yeah," I breathe. I move my hips just a little...just enough. His eyes close and he clutches me tighter. "Yes," I whisper, and I shift again, and he gasps, and I sigh.

We lay there motionless for a good minute, each getting used to the sensation. He trails the back of his hand down my face, then kisses me very slowly before moving, himself.

Every small movement causes me to hiss, and dig my fingers into him; he's pressing me to him so hard that there's friction over every inch of our bodies, and I realize I'm shivering. And not with cold.

He pushes up into me completely, and my eyes fly open, and he is staring back at me. His brows are knit together, his eyes tearing again. So sad...he looks so sad.

_No. _I flatten my palms on his chest and push myself up to that I'm straddling him again. I hold my full weight off of him, holding myself back this time, and he goes glassy-eyed looking me up and down.

"So beautiful..." he whispers again. He runs his hands down my arms, over my sides, his fingers just ghosting the sides of my breasts. He closes his hands over my hips, finally, and dips both of his thumbs down into my wetness, closing in on my nub, one pressing in from each side.

I throw my head back and let out a shout to the ceiling, and I let my full weight down on him. It hurts for just an instant, as I expected, as I remember, and I gasp, tensing up...and then...

And then.

_I have never...ever...felt this._

It's an ache, it's a burning. The fleeting pain is giving way to..._oh_.

I lift myself up and come down on him, completely, a few more times. Then a few more, harder. The fire builds in me so quickly that I don't have time to think, don't have time to second-guess. Just react. My body moves on its own, arching me up and crashing me down; the fire licks me up and down and then settles into the place where his thumbs are still pushing into me.

I am shaking so hard when I come that Peeta has to hold me in place with his hands, pinning my hips to his own. My throat is sore from shouting. I feel him follow me a moment later, groaning through clenched teeth, and I collapse down onto his chest, boneless, spineless and limp.

I settle my cheek into the hollow just underneath his shoulder, and we gasp together, all heavy breaths and sweaty limbs. Every few seconds, I shudder and my body clenches around him again as I ride through my aftershocks; each time I do, he hisses and pushes up a little. Neither of us wants this to end.

Eventually, my breathing slows and my fist relaxes, releasing the bedsheet from its death-grip. He is still inside me and I don't want to move. This, too, is new. This closeness, after. He strokes up and down my back, slow and soothing.

I study his chest hair, bleached silver in the dim blue winter twilight. I watch his chest rise and fall, rise and fall.

"I love you," he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear.

I freeze. His hands have stopped moving up and down my back and are now resting lightly, cautiously against my shoulder blades.

"I'm not saying that just to have you say it back," he goes on, in the same low voice, just barely audible. "I don't expect you to. I just...I needed you to know."

I lift my head...and there it is again. That sad look, those tearful eyes. "What is it?" I'm afraid again. "What's wrong?" What I've been wanting to ask him since I came in here. What I needed all of my courage to ask him.

"They found a spot on my chest x-ray."


	8. Everything

**A/N The serial writer's dilemma: do I bow to popular demand and kill off Gale in a traffic accident? Hmmmm. Tempting, but that would be a bit too deus-ex-machina, don't you agree? Plus, I need him for later. So, he stays, flawed as he is.**

**As has become my tradition, I must plug a favorite fic: wollaston's **_**Alone in a Crowded Room**_**. It has grown into something beautiful and tender and fascinating and...just read it. Trust me.**

**Onward**.

...

Chap 8: Everything

_They found a spot on my chest x-ray._

My body turns to stone, to ice. I can't move, I can't breathe. I stare at Peeta's face and it's expressionless.

"What..." My throat is dry and sore; I choke out the word and then swallow painfully. "What does that mean?"

His eyes roam over my face, like he's trying to memorize me. He reaches up to tuck a few strands of hair behind my ear, and I finally slide off of him; he tucks me close into his side. "My kind of cancer..." He looks up at the ceiling, letting his hand trail through my hair. "When it comes back, it likes to come back to the lungs, first."

My mouth falls open and my throat closes. _No. No. Not this, not now_. A slow, shaky breath works its way up from my own lungs, but I'm painfully incapable of speech.

"It could be nothing," he continues, eerily calm. "Or it could be...not nothing."

"That's a double negative," I murmur. I immediately want to clap my own hand over my mouth and kick myself in the shins.

But incredibly, he's smiling; he lets his head fall to the side so that he's looking at me. "You can say that again."

I smile weakly, a ghost of an expression. "So what happens now?" My throat is so raw.

"I go to the hospital tomorrow morning for a CT scan."

"Oh." I shiver against him, and sit up to retrieve the blanket from the foot of the bed. I start to pull it up and over us, but my brain intrudes. _Prim_. She has a half-day of classes tomorrow, and was going to come home and spend the day with me before braving Uncle Hamish's non-feast on Thanksgiving. The three of us were going to hang out; I try to picture that happening now. I frown, then clamber over Peeta, hopping down from the bed and tiptoeing across the room.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling Prim. I'm staying here tonight." I find my phone and dial.

He raises his eyebrows, but says nothing.

After a hurried conversation with my little sis, I open Peeta's bureau and grab two shirts for us; the evening has gotten chilly and the wind is howling through the bare trees. And my boyfriend might be dying.

My boyfriend, who I love. But I'm too chickenshit to say it, even now.

I crawl back onto the bed; while I was talking to Prim, he pulled his jeans all the way off and removed his leg, which I've now seen him do only a handful of times. He does it so quickly that I usually miss most of it, as I did tonight; I only see him pull off the padded sock-thing that he wears over his stump so his prosthetic leg won't chafe him. He balls it up and throws it into the laundry pile at the end of his bed, then twitches the sheet over himself, glancing over to see if I've seen.

He's so guarded about himself, I realize. He makes everything about everyone else. This...I've never seen him like this. So quiet. It's a bit scary.

I drop the shirts on the desk, grab the bedspread and pull it up around us again. "I'm going with you tomorrow." I curl up into his side.

He frowns. "I can't ask you to do that."

"But I want to."

"I'm getting up pretty early..."

I pull back and stare at him. "Peeta. I'm going with you." I can't return his_ I love you _yet, but I can do this.

He nods and gathers me up into the circle of his arms. "Thanks." His voice is a bit unsteady, a bit broken, and it brings the sting of hot tears to my eyes, but they never fall.

We manage to get a little sleep, but the shirts never make it onto our bodies. Skin is better.

...

The day before Thanksgiving is windy and gray, and I've spent its early morning hours in the freezing waiting room of Brighton Medical Center's Radiology department. The place seems to be deserted apart from a bare-bones staff of nurses in pink scrubs; other patients are few, which meant they could take Peeta back as soon as we got here. The sky was barely light when the cab dropped us off, the sun peeking through breaks in the trees when he kissed my forehead and disappeared behind a large, cold door.

A group of nurses have gathered behind the department's main desk, hunched over around what looks like an iphone, stupid grins on their faces. Every once in a while a raucous peal of laughter reaches me, and every time it does I want to march over there and throw that idiotic phone down the deserted hallway.

He's only been back there for half an hour, and already I'm going crazy.

I'm hunched in a quite uncomfortable plush chair, knees drawn up to my chest, watching the day get brighter and brighter. We had no classes today. We had planned on spending it together, just not...like this. We were going to go back to my place and maybe watch a few movies while we waited for Prim, maybe get together with the group for dinner. Prepare Peeta for being the first guy I've ever brought 'home' for Thanksgiving, and for Hamish's inevitable drunkenness.

I stare at the traffic on Brighton Ave. and silently mourn for whatever this day was going to be, if this hadn't happened.

I haven't allowed myself to think about it in concrete terms. The little bits of information he's let slip about his illness are coming back to me in harrowing detail. The medicine they gave him made him so sick that he'd repeatedly thrown up all over his chest while his leg was still in traction. When they'd finally amputated it, he'd spent weeks writhing in bed with phantom pins and needles he couldn't relieve, in the leg he no longer had. He'd lost sixty pounds in two months and they'd fed him through a tube; he still had the small scar just under his ribs.

He's guarded about it, but the facts I do know chill me to the bone. _How do I...what do I... _I pull my arms tighter around my knees and hug myself, burrowing as deeply into the cushion as I can.

Finally, one of the younger nurses on duty takes pity on me and walks over. "You know," she says, "You can go back with him if you want."

I raise my eyebrows. "Really? I'm not family."

She smiles, and I take in her long, carrot-red hair and pale skin, her warm smile and the way she barely seems to fit into her scrubs. She doesn't look any older than me. "Yeah. You can't go into the actual room because of the radiation exposure, but you can stand in the control room. Okay?"

I nod, a lump forming in my throat. We walk past the giggling group of nurses; I catch the faint sounds of a YouTube video on our way by. Maybe it's something Peeta and I would have laughed at, too.

We go through the heavy white door that swallowed Peeta, through another set of swinging doors and finally through a normal-looking one the nurse opens with a key card. Another nurse looks up from a computer screen; there are various terminals and screens and control boards in front of a large window.

The kind red-haired nurse whispers something to the one at the desk, who nods; I glance at her name tag as she slips back out the door. "Thank you, Lavinia."

She smiles and nods.

I turn my attention to the large window, beyond which is a cavernous white room, empty except for a gigantic doughnut-shaped machine. Inserted into the doughnut-hole (for want of a better word) is a long padded table, and on the table is Peeta.

I can only see the top of his head, his curls resting atop a few propped-up pillows, with his hands tucked behind his head. My hands fly to my face, and I cover my mouth.

The nurse grabs a small microphone attached to the desk and presses an intercom key; there is a loud click of the overhead speakers, and I jump.

"Okay, Peeta," she says. "We're ready to get started. Are you all set in there?"

"Yeah, all set." Even through the crackling of the intercom, I can hear how his voice echoes around in that huge empty room, and I can hear how it's wavering, and I can hear how scared he is.

My hands drop from my mouth; the nurse catches the movement and glances over at me. She clicks the mic off. "Do you want to say hi?" she asks.

I stare at her for a few seconds. Then: "Yeah...I do."

She grins and presses her button again. "There's someone here who wants to say hi," she says, gesturing me over to the desk.

I bend down, feeling very awkward. "Hey, Peeta." I think I'm speaking too softly, but my amplified voice still bounces off the white walls.

His head moves a little, like he's trying to see behind him. "Hey you," he says, and now I can hear the smile in his voice. "Enjoying the show?"

"Um...not really."

"Yeah. Neither am I."

I wrack my brain for something vaguely encouraging so say. "After this is all over, you wanna go get some pizza?"

He chuckles; I see him shaking his head. "That sounds fantastic right now..."

"Okay, you two. Let's get started." The nurse cuts back in and quickly gets down to business.

The scan itself is surprisingly quick: a few minutes of whirring and clicking that sound very faint from the little control room, but must be much louder to Peeta. The table he's lying on moves back and forth through the machine. The nurse asks him to take a deep breath and hold it three or four times; I take a breath and hold it each time, as well. By the end, I'm lightheaded. The nurse's fingers fly over the keyboard. Various black and white images appear on the screens in rapid succession; I couldn't hope to make any sense out of them.

All I keep thinking is: _That can't possibly be him_. The man I made love to yesterday...that's not him, what's spitting out onto those screens. I want to tear open the door, run in there and drag him away from that doughnut machine.

But instead, I stand aside and hug my arms around myself and feel very, very small.

...

"They're reading it today," he tells me in the cab, on the way back to Gorham.

"Huh?" I glance over at him; he's leaning against the door, chin resting in his palm. I've been staring straight ahead and crushing his hand between both of mine.

"The films. They're bringing someone in to read it today, even though it's the day before Thanksgiving. So I can know, by the end of the day, and I don't have to spend the holiday..."

"Oh." The cab rounds a corner too sharply, and I'm thrown against him, and I use the opportunity to rest my forehead against his shoulder. His arm comes up around my shoulders, and we're silent the rest of the way back to his dorm.

It turns into a quiet day; I think we're both feeling a bit numb, so we raid his Netflix queue for distraction. "Comedies," he says. "We need comedies. Have you ever seen _Raising Arizona_?"

I frown. "Mmm...a long time ago, I think."

"Well," he says, clicking the title and settling in behind me on the bed, curving his body around mine, "Prepare to laugh your ass off."

And we do; amazingly, we do. My stomach hurts; I have never laughed so hard as I do when John Goodman starts screaming about the baby on the car roof. I clutch at my midsection and he shakes silently with laughter behind me, and we manage to not talk about the hospital, the scan, or the silent phone waiting like a time bomb on the desk.

We start another movie after the first one ends, but instead of watching it I flip over onto my other side and throw my arms around Peeta, burying my face in his shirt. This is no good, I know it's no good, but I can't avoid thinking this way. Thinking about that damn phone and what it's going to mean when it rings.

And what it's going to be like, for the two of us. Because...I'm in this, now.

Peeta rests his chin on top of my head and runs his fingers through my hair over and over; it's a motion that seems to calm him. He seems calmer than I am, resigned, maybe. I don't want him to be resigned. I don't want any of this to be real.

_How do I do this? _

_I would give him up, if it would somehow make this not have to happen_. The thought stabs through me like a blade.

A million thoughts just like this cycle through my brain, all through the afternoon. But we don't talk about it. Instead, we let the funny movies play in the background and we hold each other; his heartbeat underneath his shirt is strong and steady, his breathing even.

How is he not crying, or going crazy? How much does he hide from me? How much have I missed, from just being oblivious?

It's 3:30, I've just gotten off the phone with Prim (she's stuck dealing with Hamish all day; not ideal, but necessary) and I'm munching on a cold PopTart when the call comes. Both of our eyes snap to the desk; Peeta just stares at the phone for a few seconds, then goes to pick it up in slow motion, reading the caller-ID screen a few times before answering.

"Hello," he says. His voice is quiet, cautious, crackly from not being used all day. "Speaking...yeah?...Okay...Oh...Okay...That's...Yes, I have...Wow. All right...I will. Thank you. Happy Thanksgiving."

Peeta looks up at me and our eyes lock. I step forward and encounter something crumbly with my bare toes; I look down and realize I've crushed the PopTart in my clenched fist. I rub my sole against the top of my other foot, dislodging the crumbs, and then I go to him, stand right in front of him, take his face in my hands and make him look at me. I'm not breathing.

His eyes are blank at first. And then he takes a deep breath and he opens his mouth and he tells me: "It's nothing."

If I've been numb all day, the feelings now come flooding back in full force. I feel my knees start to buckle when he says, "It's...inflammation. That cold I had a few weeks ago...I'm congested. That's it. It's not..." He shakes his head, lets out a breath. "I go back in a month for a repeat scan, but the guy said he's as close to one hundred percent sure that it's not cancerous as he can get."

I open and close my mouth a few times, and finally squeak out, "So you're okay?"

"Yeah." A tiny grin creeps onto his face, and he reaches for me, pulling me close. He's so warm. "You're stuck with me."

I don't feel it until it's on me. I'm breathing deeper and deeper and suddenly I'm gasping. I can't get enough air and I'm trembling. My face is flooded with tears.

He grabs my hands and makes me sit down on the bed. "Hey hey hey..." His arms are around me, strong, but I'm still clutching at his face, like he'll disappear if I don't. "Look at me. This is good news."

I shake my head, disgusted with myself. That he has to be comforting me, right now. "I know, I was just..." I shake my head again. Gasp a few more times before croaking, "I was so scared."

He pulls me into him again, and his voice is a low rumble against my ear. "Me too." There's a short silence, and then he says, "Know what I really want to do?"

I sniff. "What?"

He kisses the top of my head. "I want to get out of this damn tiny room. I want to go into town and stuff myself so full of Amatos pizza I turn into a greasy blob. Then I want to follow you onto the shuttle and go back to your place and sleep next to you tonight. And tomorrow, I want to go eat Thanksgiving Chinese food with your uncle and your sister."

That gets a laugh out of me; I snort and swipe at my runny nose. "You're in for a treat."

"I know. But first..." He pulls back, and for the first time all day those October-sky eyes are smiling, crinkling up in the corners as he tucks my loose hair back behind my ears. "First, I want to kiss you."

And he does, long and deeply. And I think I might die from loving this man.

...

To really understand about my family's Thanksgiving Chinese food tradition, you have to see Hamish's house. I spent almost three years living there; I could have spent the entire time cleaning and still not made a dent in the grime. When Prim and I were both here full time, the place was passable; cluttered, but reasonably clean.

Now, though...you're lucky if you can walk across a room without having to kick trash out of your way. It almost always smells like something died in there. And literally every surface in the kitchen is sticky; the idea of actually cooking anything in there is vomit-inducing. So if you're eating at Hamish's, it is something you brought yourself, it is something you can eat out of the package...or it is take-out.

This is one of the reasons that I have Prim over at my place whenever humanly possible. She was here at Hamish's last night, though, and she will have done whatever she could, but I fully expect the place to be as disgusting as usual.

Peeta did indeed spend the night in my bed last night, but nothing of a romantic nature happened. We were both still coming down from the adrenaline of the day, and it was all we could do to hold one another.

We get off the bus down the street from my uncle's house around 1:00 on Thanksgiving day, and I grip Peeta's hand tightly. "Are you ready for this?"

He grins, nodding. "I think so, yeah."

"Remember what I told you?"

"Don't talk about your folks, and don't take anything he says seriously?"

I squeeze his hand again. "Okay. You're ready."

Hamish opens the door before my hand has reached the doorknob; to my amazement, he doesn't look as unkempt as usual, with a button-down shirt tucked into only slightly-ragged khakis and his hair still wet and slicked back from the shower. I guess the prospect of meeting Peeta (my 'boy-toy,' as Hamish so eloquently calls him) inspired him to get prettied up.

"Kat," he nods at me, then turns to Peeta. "So..._you're_ the one," he growls, looking Peeta up and down with narrowed eyes.

I narrow my own eyes at him and am about to make a smart-ass remark, when Peeta speaks up. "Yes sir, I am," he says, extending his hand for Hamish to shake.

Hamish just looks at the hand, then back up at Peeta before offering his own.

Then Hamish peers back at me. I merely link my arm with Peeta's, saying with a shrug, "Yes. He is."

Hamish shakes his head and turns away. "Well, come on in, then," he throws over his shoulder. "Our feast should be here any minute."

Prim comes barrelling down the hallway and launches herself at me, hugging me around the midsection and nearly knocking the wind out of me. "Kat, thank goodness you're here! The dust bunnies are about to eat me alive." I laugh, and she squeezes me around the waist and whispers, "We're only half a bottle in, so far. I think we're gonna be okay." She steps back, straightening her hair and glancing at Peeta as she turns back down the hallway. "Hey stranger, long time no see..."

I roll my eyes and start into the house after her, but Peeta catches my hand, holding me on the porch. He leans in, and I'm sure he's going to ask if I think that introduction went okay (I do), or what that awful smell is (it's the trash bin in the kitchen; I'll have to empty it before I leave today). But instead, he leans in and kisses me, cupping the back of my head to pull me in closer, his mouth lingering warm on mine.

I bring my hands up to caress the sides of his face; they're stubbly, I notice, because I don't think he's shaved for the last day or so. Fearing for your life makes you let some things go. I let my palms rasp up and down his cheeks a few times before I pull away.

"What was that for?" I whisper.

He shrugs, grinning foolishly, letting his eyes roam over my face. "Nothing," he says. "Everything."

I press my lips together, look down at my shoes and then back up at him. We haven't talked about the sex yet, although it's been the only thing on my mind for the past day or so. The only. Thing. "C'mon," I say, slipping my hand into his and gesturing inside the house with my head.

Hamish pops his head around the kitchen doorway and bellows, "Come on! You're letting the cold air in."

...

We chat over empty Chinese food boxes, lounging on chairs with the stuffing leaking out and watching _Miracle on 34th Street _on AMC, all afternoon.

Peeta has worked his magic; my uncle is engaged, talking, even smiling. I don't know how he does it, but he manages to find something to talk about. He discovers Hamish is a World War II buff, and asks him several leading questions, skillfully drawing him out so that he's gesturing wildly and almost completely forgets to get shitfaced.

I watch Peeta in awe. 24 hours ago, he thought he was going to die. Now, he's working the room like he's known Hamish his whole life. It makes me wonder again where he puts all that fear, how he's burying all of that anxiety. And I wonder what else, about himself, he could so skillfully hide.

Prim drifts over to my chair and perches up on the well-worn arm. "Those two are getting along well," she says softly, indicating across the room where Peeta and Hamish are debating the relative merits of dropping the atom bomb versus invading Japan full-scale.

"Yeah," I say. "Makes it less awkward than usual, at least."

"Gale said he might stop by, later," she whispers.

I freeze. Then, I reach out and pat her hand, and my own hand is like ice. "I don't think he'll be stopping by, Ducky."

She smiles. "Yeah, I knew he was bullshitting. Especially after I told him who else would be here." She smiles. "Speaking of being here. I'm staying here again tonight."

My head snaps up. "What? Prim."

She holds up her hand. "I'm going to Rue's gymnastics meet with her tomorrow; Thresh is leaving really early to drive her, and I'm on their way if I'm here." She studies my worried expression. "I'll be around tomorrow night. Friday. Just like always."

"I worry about you being here by yourself."

"He's not even that bad today, Kat." We both glance over at Hamish; she's right, he's still on his feet and coherent, which is impressive for this late on a holiday. "Plus I have homework I have to do before this weekend. I haven't exactly been getting a lot done at your place lately."

I grin. "Are you saying we're too fun over there now? I should scale it back?"

"No." She slides down into the seat next to me. "You should keep doing_...exactly _what you're doing."

Something in her voice makes me blush; I look down at my hands, and then I can't help it, but my eyes slide over to where Peeta is sitting.

He's looking at me too, with a delicious half-grin.

We'll be alone again tonight.

...

In the end, Hamish lets us go with a "Stay out of trouble, you," but also a "The boy? He's all right," which surprises the hell out of me.

I make Prim promise to call me tomorrow from the meet; she gives both me and, to my continued surprise, Peeta, a hug, whispering something I can't hear into his ear but telling me only, "See you tomorrow."

When the hell did my baby sister grow up and start looking out for me?

...

I find myself inexplicably nervous to be alone with him again.

He splurges for another cab to take us back to my apartment, since no buses are running at this late hour on a holiday, and we don't talk much during the ride. I find myself wondering about last night: did we not have sex because it had been such a draining day and we were both emotionally exhausted...or was it because he thinks the first time was a mistake? Did that only happen because he was scared and needed comfort? Are we about to go back to our nervous dancing around one another? I can't do that...I can't take it.

I let us in; we trudge up the stairs, throw our coats on the table...and then face each other. Sort of. His eyes are roaming everywhere in the room but my face. I flip on the hall light and I see that he's frowning a little.

I take a deep breath. "Well, I'm just gonna shower real quick. So..." Yeah. Awkward.

He nods, and I might be imagining it, but I think he blushes a bit. "Okay, I'll, um...I'll meet you in...your room?" He meets my eye then, rubbing the back of his neck.

Oh. This is bad. He has to ask whether he's even welcome in my bed, now that the crisis is over. _Fix this, Kat_. Even though I have no idea what I've done to un-fix it. "Sure," I say, stepping forward and catching his hand. I give his lips a quick kiss, lingering for only a second or two.

He reaches up to caress my face, but drops his hand again when I move away a moment too soon. I kind of half-smile, then retreat down the hallway to my room. I pull a clean tee shirt and some underwear from random drawers, worrying at my lip and wondering why the fuck this is so awkward.

I turn around and he's there, in my doorway. Watching me and biting at his own lip. I step toward him and he catches me around the waist, pulling me in for a much deeper kiss than I gave him earlier. His tongue sweeps into my mouth once, then he is trailing slow, lingering kisses over my jaw to that spot just under my earlobe.

_Well. This is promising_.

"Don't take too long of a shower," he says into my neck, and my eyes flutter closed. "You're really not that dirty, anyway."

And my eyes pop open again. Did he actually just say that? _So that's how we're going to play it. _A grin creeps onto my face as I reply, "You have no idea." My voice is light and breathy and sounds totally unlike me.

I feel him smile against my skin. "I have some idea," he says, and this time his breath warms the skin at the base of my throat.

I nod, gulp, back away, my heart pounding. My eyes don't leave his until I'm safely in the bathroom; he watches me go, braced against the doorway with one arm above his head.

I take what is probably the shortest shower in Kat history, not even taking time to wash my hair, just briefly ducking my head under the water and swiping around with a soapy washcloth. I'm so distracted I barely remember to turn the water off.

When I open my bedroom door again, my first thought is _Oh god, he's gorgeous_. I can't help myself. Last night, we slept in our clothes, not even bothering to change; tonight, he's lying shirtless on my bed (apparently he only likes the pajama pants), hugging one of my pillows, with just a sheet covering his legs. He's taken off the prosthesis; I can tell by the way the sheet dips around him.

"These pillows smell like you," he says, muffled, his nose and mouth buried in said pillow. He lets his eyes run up and down over me once; I'm not wearing pants, just a tee shirt. And then...and then he holds out his arm toward me, and I just go to him, automatically. I don't even think about it. I crawl under the sheet next to him and settle with my back against his chest, and his arms envelop and pull me close. He rests his cheek against mine and we just lay that way for a while.

"Katniss," he finally says. "Tuesday."

"...Yeah?" And I hope my voice is steady enough to disguise the fear.

"It didn't happen just because I was scared and needed comfort." He hugs me closer to him, if that's possible, and I cover his hand with mine. "I mean, I was, and I did. But...that's not why." He kisses my head. "I meant what I said." He strokes the skin around my belly button. "And I've wanted...that...pretty much ever since I met you, if I'm being honest. And...it seemed like you were telling me you were ready."

"I was. I am."

"Good." He kisses my earlobe. "Because that was...the most incredible thing...I have ever-"

"Yeah," I answer softly. "Me too." I'm not sure what to say after that; I don't know how to tell him what I want, or really how to proceed at all. It was so easy the other day, like I was on a mission. Now I don't know what to do. _ I'm so bad at this_. I stretch my legs under the sheet and settle back against him like he's a body pillow, snugging his arm up against my waist. "Mmmph. Sleepy," I say. And I am, but...

"That's okay. I'll just ravish you while you sleep." His hand creeps up underneath my shirt and begins traveling north.

Again, my eyes pop open. "Oh, really?"

"Oh, don't worry. I'll wake you up for the good parts." His teeth close on my earlobe; his fingers skirt the underside of my breast.

I'm shivering again. I'm a little breathless. "How generous of you."

"Well that's just the kind of stand-up guy I am." He runs his fingers over my nipple, and leans down to kiss that sensitive spot underneath my ear again.

Narrowing my eyes, I reach down under the sheet and grab hold of him, running my palm up and down his length once, in a way I would not have believed myself capable of, a week ago. His breath catches. "Well," I say, glancing back at him; his eyes are half-closed, his lips hovering inches from mine. "One part of you is standing up, anyway."

His mouth is curling up into a smile, but he shifts suddenly, rolling me onto my back, and crushes my mouth with a hot, wet kiss. I lean up into him, but he presses his weight down onto me, his erection trapped between us, and I feel my body melt down into the mattress.

He moves off toward my ear; his breath is a hot rush against my skin as he says, "Jesus. Katniss. I want to..."

"What? What do you want?" My own whisper is low, urgent.

He reaches down and tugs at the hem of my shirt, then props himself up on his elbows so I can pull it over my head. Again, the feeling of our bare chests touching is like electricity between us. The frission between our feverish skin is heightened by the small moans we're both emitting. His breathing is ragged and uneven, and I clutch at his back. Never have I been so excited.

His hands lightly cup my face, then move to my shoulders. One hand travels down my side, to my hip, the top of my thigh, to rest in between my legs. His fingers dip into the waistband of my panties, tugging at them as his other hand moves to smooth the hair out of my face.

He leans his head down and whispers again, smoothing my hair over and over. "I just want to touch every part of you. I want to put my hands everywhere." His hand drops to my bare breast and he drags his thumb over the nipple; I arch off the bed and he finds my nub with his wet fingers, rubbing small circles into me. "I want to make you scream again."

I let out a small, keening moan that turns into a cry as his lips find the hollow at the base of my neck; he bites softly and I feel it all the way down to my toes, the burning pinpricks setting my skin aflame.

"I want..." he whispers into my skin. "I just want to..."

He's having trouble getting it out. So I reach down and grab him again, cup him in my palm where he's trapped between us. "What do you want?" I whisper, my voice almost harsh.

He meets my eyes and his gaze is so intense; for an instant we don't move. My shaking has intensified, though, I can't seem to help it around him, and he closes his eyes and leans close to my ear again.

"I want to taste you with my tongue."

I let out a ragged breath, a whimper.

"Will you let me do that?"

I nod frantically.

"Until you come. And then...I want you to come again, when I'm-"

I squeeze at him then, my fingers contracting and making him twitch, and he lets out a hiss and reaches down and grabs my hand away. He traps both of my wrists within the circle of his hands and trails kisses down the length of my body until I'm shaking. Moaning.

Screaming, like he wanted.

...

Later.

He's lingering inside me, his legs tangled up with mine, his head resting on the pillow beside me. I'm running a curly strand of his hair over and over the knuckles of one hand, while my right hand is entwined in his left.

"Peeta?"

He squeezes my hand, then brings it to his mouth and kisses my wrist, palm, fingertips. "Yeah?" he whispers, against my skin.

My eyes find his; they are soft and smiling, the same blue as the October sky, the kind of blue that makes the other colors brighter.

"I think I love you, too."


	9. Going to California

Chap 9: Going to California

Mid-December. The cold and snow have arrived in earnest and finals week is upon us. We are given a hiatus from class starting from the Wednesday before exams. The idea is that we'll really buckle down and take everything we've learned in class all semester and roll it into preparing for the exam, or finishing final projects and papers. So naturally, we're taking every opportunity to study.

Really. We are.

What actually happens, the Wednesday before exams, is this:

I step off the shuttle that afternoon and lug an armful of books (and an overnight bag) up to the second floor of Robie Andrews. I stick my head into Peeta's room; he bolts up from his desk and grabs my hand, pulling me the rest of the way in and causing me to drop all my books in the doorway. We kick them out of the way, laughing.

They don't move from the floor again.

I figure, hey. I'm an accounting major. There's not much studying involved. Any formulas I need for an exam, I can plug into my graphing calculator. So I can let that one go. Seminar? I have to meet with my group on Thursday night to finish our final presentation (which I'm dreading), so that can go until tomorrow.

Peeta will have to disappear for a while tonight, and every night until his final art project is finished. He won't let me see it until it's done. He's also got math and art history to prepare for, as well as his group's Seminar project, which he is not nearly as nervous about.

Finals start Monday. We have five days of no classes to...study.

I smile against his lips, kicking aside one last book. "Missed you last night."

"Mmm. Missed you too."

"How long do you have?"

He glances down at his watch. "Two hours. I have the studio from 6 to 9."

My bottom lip juts out. "Not long enough..."

"Who says?" I look up to find him leering comically, one eyebrow raised. "We could get a lot done in two hours."

I chuckle as I settle cross-legged on his bed, grab my phone and start flipping through my limited collection of songs, raising one eyebrow of my own. "Not long enough for what I have in mind..." I find the song I want, and pause it long enough to plug in the speakers.

He's silent; when I look up again, he's still reeling from my last comment. He's giving me the hungriest look I've ever seen, and it makes the pit of my stomach boil. He joins me on the bed as I set my phone down and the song starts playing. He sweeps my hair off of my shoulder and plants his lips into the skin at the base of my throat, sucking lightly.

I smile and reach down for his hand, twining our fingers together. He sighs and slides back so his back is against the wall, and I settle with my head in his lap. "Will you be here when I get out tonight?"

"That depends. Will you come back covered in clay?"

My head bounces as he laughs. "I'm actually working with oils, but if clay is what does it for you..." He goes silent, and I glance up to find him frowning over at the speakers. "What are we listening to?"

I stare at him. "Uh...Rage. Duh. _Sleep Now in the Fire_. It's a classic song."

But he's shaking his head. "No...too angry."

"Oh come on! What if I'm in an angry mood?"

"No..." He slides forward again, forcing me to sit up. He disconnects my phone, grabbing his ipod instead. "Way too angry. This is study week; this is a happy time, Katniss."

I roll my eyes. "Fine, but this better be good."

He starts another song, then quickly leans over and grabs my wrists, meeting my eyes and grinning nervously. I widen my own eyes at him as the music starts. "What? What did you do?"

"Just...listen. Please?"

I listen. "Oh no. No. Peeta..."

"Come on!"

"Did I or did I not expressly say 'no country music?'"

I move to turn it off, but he tightens his grip. "Please? It's Alison Krauss. She's really...I think you'll really like it! Just...for me?"

He bats his eyelashes theatrically, and I narrow my eyes. "Fine."

He grins and releases me. "Her voice reminds me of yours, actually...what little I've heard of yours."

I snort. "Flattery will get you nowhere." I listen for a minute, and...okay. This chick is actually decent. Until... "Okay. No. She just said the word 'cowgirl.' I can't..." I dart around Peeta and dive off the bed, grabbing the ipod and holding it out of his reach. "I gave it a fair chance, but..." I reach down at hit Stop. "I have to stick to my original rule. Okay?"

Peeta sags. "Okay..."

I hand him the device. "Pick a happy medium?"

He scrolls for a moment. "All right. Got one."

I settle back into his lap and his arms wrap around me as ethereal vocals and driving guitar of _Where Is My Mind _fill the room.

I grin and crane my head around. "The Pixies! Very nice." I snuggle my head back down. "I've taught you well."

He runs his fingers through my hair, then down my side until his palms rests against my waist, fitting against me so well it might have grown there. "Maybe I've taught _you_ well."

I grab his hand and bring it to my mouth, kissing the knuckles before settling it underneath my cheek, palm up. "Maybe," I whisper.

We listen to the song, and then another one, and darkness falls. And we don't study.

And I must drift off to sleep at some point, because his voice startles me when he says, "Katniss?"

"Yeah?" He's still the only one who calls me by my full name.

He's silent for a minute longer, and I've started to close my eyes again when he asks, "Do you believe in reincarnation?"

It's a serious question, but I can't suppress a snicker. "No." Then I realize that I might have just insulted him, and my face floods with red. "I mean...if that's what you believe...but no, I mean, I don't, um-"

He interrupts me with laughter. "Well, okay. Maybe 'reincarnation' isn't the right word." He resettles himself, arranging my head so that I'm not in contact with his prosthetic; it's a subtle move, at least he thinks it is. "It's just...I have these dreams about you, sometimes..."

"Oh, really?" I roll so that I'm on my back looking up at him, and I waggle my eyebrows at him, trying to suppress my wicked grin and failing.

His eyes widen. "No, not_ that _kind of...well, okay. I have those dreams too."

"Do tell."

"Oh, I will. But these dreams...it's like, I see you, but it's not you. I mean, you're still you. But...everything around you is different. Like you're in another world. Like...a parallel universe, or something."

"Oh, like on that show _Sliders_?" I immediately clap my hand over my mouth at this admission.

He laughs deeply-I love that sound-and leans down to kiss me. "Knew I liked you. So anyway, yeah. Like on _Sliders_. It's like I'm dreaming of you in some parallel, alternate world, where everything around us is different. But somehow...not different. And I'm there too."

"And are we..."

"Yeah. We are. Not always as close as we are here, but...yeah. We're together."

"Hmmmm." I snuggle into his leg again, and his hand settles back onto my waist, and it's like we're puzzle pieces again. It fits. "That's kind of a comforting thought."

"What?"

"Well, just the thought that even in some other universe, somewhere...I still found you."

He's silent for a moment, then he's shifting on the bed, lowering himself down so he's lying beside me. He's taking my face between both of his hands and he's kissing me breathless. I shift so that I'm facing him, and the kiss deepens. He hooks his leg over mine, I bury my fingers in his hair and...

And I have to pull away, or he's going to miss his studio time. We rest our foreheads together and just stare, enjoying the heat between us and anticipating what we can make of it, later tonight.

Finally I drop my eyes, needing to break this mood, this tension. This neverending need. "God, I sounded so cheesy just now."

"I liked it," he whispers, nuzzling my ear.

"Well, I didn't sound like myself," I say, frowning.

He pulls back, mirroring my frown. "You sounded like you, to me."

I bite my lip. "It's just...something happens to me, when I'm around you." I lay my head back and let it roll to the side, not wanting to look at him when I'm sounding like such a tool. "Something _changes_. I mean...I don't know."

"I know," he says, still in a whisper. "Something changes for me, too."

I look back at him...and there it is, again. Electricity in the air, when our eyes meet, grey on blue. That eerie feeling, that creeping up of something...something to explain this need we have for each other, this insatiable drive to touch each other. To be here, together.

_While we still can_, something says inside my head, but I push it back.

"So..." I run a finger along his jaw, letting my eyes fall to his lips. "Did you have one last night? One of those parallel universe dreams?"

He half-grins. "Noooo...last night I had one of the other kind."

This time, I don't even try to hide my evil smile. And Peeta is officially going to be late for his studio time tonight.

...

If there is one thing I don't think I'll ever get tired of, it's waking up next to Peeta. We've spent more nights together than apart since Thanksgiving, and I don't know how the poor guy gets any sleep when I'm in his bed; although being wrapped up in his arms keeps me more immobile than I normally am, we still end up in a tangle of sheets and limbs and hair by morning. I open my eyes, Thursday, to find that I've somehow maneuvered his head down onto my chest and I'm drooling in his hair. One of his arms is draped over my midsection; one of my arms is wedged beneath his body and has lost all feeling. Our lower halves are hopelessly tangled.

His tiny twin mattress just cannot contain my thrashing, muted though it may be.

If there's one thing I hate, though, it's having to answer the door in my birthday suit. In a college dorm. That's the situation in which I now find myself: wide awake, mid-morning sun slanting onto the hardwood floor and the strewn books I haven't picked up yet, naked and warm and having to get up very urgently, because someone is pounding on the door in a manner akin to a drill seargant doing a spot inspection.

"Mellark! Open up."

The voice is Johanna's. And I'm going to kill her.

Right after I pee.

Another flurry of pounding on the door, and Peeta gives a loud snort but doesn't wake. He sleeps like a rock. I extricate my arms, gently push his head off of me and onto the corner of the pillow that's not wedged behind the mattress, then flip myself off the bed, trip over my discarded jeans and stumble across the floor.

"Shit..." I pick myself up and glance back at the bed; he's watching me through one bleary eye.

"You get a 10 for difficulty, but a 2 for execution," he slurs.

"Oh, shut up," I say through another round of door-pounding. "You're the reason I can't walk right, you know." I give up on looking for my underwear and just pull the jeans on.

Peeta continues to watch through one open eye as I slip my sweatshirt over my head and run a hand through my hair; finally, he rolls his head back and grins widely, linking both hands together behind his head. "Sorry about that..."

"No you're not..." I flip the lock and throw the door open to reveal an equally bleary-eyed Johanna.

She blinks. "Oh hey, Kat. Nice bed-head." She turns to Peeta, who's pulling the sheet further up, from his waist to his shoulders, but not before Jo can get herself a nice eyeful. "We've, ah, got ourselves a situation here, Mellark. All hands on deck."

I look past her into the hallway, and there at the window overlooking the quad is Annie. She's clearly been up for hours; she's dressed, smoky curls neatly brushed and pulled back. She's gazing out the window, running her hands over and over the windowsill. She looks completely detached; not agitated like she was the night of the breakdown, but more like she's not really here with us.

I go out to her immediately, leaving Peeta to follow me when he can.

"Hey Annie. What are you..." And I look out the window, and that's when I see them, standing in a small group just outside the entrance to the dorm.

The woman is clearly Annie's mother; the two look so much alike they could be sisters, but her mom's dark hair is shot through with white, and her face is dark and creased. She wears a wool coat and has her arm linked through that of a tall man who is probably Annie's father. With them is another, shorter and balding man. I look back at Annie, confused.

"They want me to meet with him," she says. "They want us to reconcile. We're family."

I have a moment of confusion. Then, I realize. "Annie...oh my god. Is that him?"

"Yes."

"They brought him here?"

"Yes."

I stare at her. "They're waiting for you to let them_ in?"_

She nods, pressing her lips together. "I told them not to come. But my dad...he said we're family."

I look back out at the group of three hopelessly misguided people. My head is reeling, from the fact that her parents still don't believe their daughter was molested, and the fact that they have the unmitigated gall to bring this...man back into Annie's presence. To presume that she'd want to reconcile with him.

There are no words for shitheads of this magnitude.

The three of them are jumping around in the cold, stamping their feet and rubbing their gloved hands together. Actually waiting for Annie to let them in the building, so they can have a nice family visit. I focus on the balding man, the one whose pale face betrays all the time he's recently spent indoors. Behind bars.

"I'm afraid that if someone uses that door, they'll get in here." I see what she means: her folks could ask anyone to hold the door for them on the way in or out. The thought causes bile to rise in my throat. Annie finally looks away from the window, and I'm able to see that although her voice is calm, her eyes are full of terror. "They still don't believe me."

I hear a shuffling in the doorway behind us, and look back to find Peeta crutching himself toward us in pajama bottoms and a tee shirt, looking grim but determined. "We're on it, Annie. They won't get in this building today. You two watch this entrance...I'm going to go make some calls."

"I'll take the other entrance," says Jo, and we all look up to find her already jogging off down the hallway. "Fucking asshole shithead excuse for parents..."

"Annie, look at me," Peeta says, and I can't help but marvel at how different his voice is. He sounds totally calm and totally sure, and he can turn it on whenever he wants to. It's...a little scary. But Annie looks at him, and I can see her shoulders sag with relief. "They are not getting in this building today. Okay?"

"Okay, Peeta."

He turns back into his room; I watch him grab his phone and quickly start dialing people.

Annie and I watch the door until our reinforcements arrive.

...

Mitch and Di come running over from her dorm; Diana stays with me and Annie above the south entrance; Mitch joins Johanna at the north entrance. He comes back up briefly to tell us that Jo has called campus security; Annie smiles faintly at all of us, but says nothing. Peeta is not able to reach Finn; I hear him leaving about five voice messages before he rejoins us in the hallway.

"Can't reach him. Annie, do you have any idea-"

"He'll be along." She's smiling faintly, still looking out the window at the hateful trio below.

"Okay..." He looks at me, eyebrows raised, and I shrug. "Well, I think we should go downstairs, catch people as they're going out. Just until security gets here. Annie...do you want to wait in your room?"

"Okay..." She drifts back down the hallway, trailing her fingertips against the wall.

The three of us watch her go. "I'll stay with her," Di whispers, frowning, and I nod.

So Peeta and I are left to guard the door downstairs. Luckily, no one approaches from the outside; we grab a few people as they leave and tell them not to let anyone in without an ID, especially not the three fucksticks standing just outside the entrance.

I can't even look at them, but I know they're there. I will be damned if they get in here, I will be damned if that asshole gets to talk to Annie.

Finally, I step back from the door, sagging with relief, and look over to where Peeta's sitting on the stairs. "Campus security's here," I tell him. I watch as they talk with the three Crestas. "It looks like they're gonna make them leave...oh shit."

"What?"

I step further back from the door. "Um...nothing. Just..."

We hear the beep of a keycard being swiped, and the door opens, and there he is.

It's fucking Gale.

"Hey Catnip, do you know what's going on out there?" He notices Peeta, who has pulled himself up to standing and is staring at Gale with an expression that's carefully unreadable. "Oh hey, man."

Peeta just nods, silent; I see him biting the inside of his lip and there's a twitch going at the corner of his eye.

I let my eyes flick back and forth between the two of them. Fuck. This could be bad.

"Oooookay." Gale moves toward the stairs, having to ease awkwardly around Peeta, who refuses to move out of the way. His twitch has grown more pronounced, but other than that he hasn't moved. "That's okay, you don't have to tell me...later, Kat. Later dude..."

He disappears, and I turn back to the door, watching as campus security moves off and the Crestas make their way around the side of the building, heading in the general direction of the parking lot.

"I think they're leaving," I say, turning around. "We should go-"

He wraps his arms around my waist from behind, pulling me against him and resting his chin on my shoulder. He turns his face so that his nose and mouth are buried in my neck, and I stand there letting pleasant shivers course through me as he breathes against me for a minute.

Just as suddenly, he snaps himself out of it and steps back, finishing my previous thought. "-Back upstairs to Annie?"

I nod shakily. "Yeah..." Clearly, we are not going to discuss the encounter with Gale. Really, there's no need. He knows the depth of my discomfort, and I'm pretty sure I know what was going through his head.

When we get back to Annie's room, Di and Mitch are there with her; Jo is apparently outside talking to security. Annie is curled up on her bed, a pillow pressed against her midsection and her arms folded over it. I move to sit beside her, but then I'm not sure what to do with my hands. It doesn't seem to matter, though; she smiles gratefully around at all of us.

There is an awkward moment or two...and then the silence is broken by a piercing scream.

It's a woman's scream, it's coming from just outside, and it's clearly audible even through the closed window.

We all jump, except for Annie; she just smiles that strange, absent smile and stares at the wall opposite the bed. "Oh," she murmurs, clutching the pillow more tightly. "That'll be Finn."

Sure enough, the next sound from outside is Finn's voice. Loud. He's screaming, too. _What did you think, motherfucker? You could just waltz in there? You better run, asshole. You better never come within five miles of that woman again. Understand? _And on and on.

Instantly, we are all crowded around the little window. Below, in the patchy snow, his breath visible as vapor and coming in short bursts, is Finn. He's in the process of tackling the shorter bald guy down to the ground; the guy is making a token effort to defend himself, but Finn is clearly the superior warrior here.

"What is he…oh my god." Peeta presses his palm against his mouth as Finn starts throwing punches; I see red bloom from the bald guy's nose. Annie's dad is now attempting to pull Finn off of the other guy, to no avail. Annie's mom just stands to the side, hiding her face and screaming.

Diana is watching with her hands pressed to her face, peeking in between her fingers at the action one story below. "Should we stop him?"

"No," Annie says. For the first time that morning, her voice is clear and strong. I turn and look at her; her face is clearer, her smile more firm. She's still staring at the wall, though.

"Holy shit, someone called the real cops..." Mitch says, calling my attention back to the window. Sure enough, a couple of town cops are jogging across the quad toward the ruckus; they're pulling out the billy clubs. This just gets better and better.

Peeta turns from the window, grabbing Mitch's sleeve as he heads for the door. "Let's go…"

Annie speaks up again, catching Peeta's eye as she does. "No, it's okay. His family has a good lawyer. He told me."

"Wait." I step away from the window; below, Finn is being pulled off of the bald guy and subdued, his face in the snow. I move over to the bed and settle myself next to her, this time reaching an arm around her shoulders. "You knew this was going to happen. Didn't you?"

Annie nods.

"You and Finn talked about this?" The others are watching us, mouths open.

A slow and faintly chilling grin spreads across Annie's face. "Maybe," she says. "My mom had been hinting at doing something like this for weeks. I talked about it with him. He said he didn't care if he got thrown in jail, he would keep them away." A sweet smile. "His parents are actors. They're rich. They'll call the lawyer and he'll be out in a few hours." She settles back against the wall, and I turn to face her. "He told me."

I smile over at Peeta; he shrugs back, grinning. I think back to when he told us that Annie was tougher than she looked. Damn right.

"They're actors?" Diana asks, sitting down on Annie's other side. "Are they famous?"

"Yes."

I think of the California plates, Finn's expensive car, the fact that he's so cocky and yet so clueless and vulnerable and kind at the same time. I suddenly wonder about those concert tickets, whether he really got them free from his job, or whether he actually bought them for us and didn't tell us.

"Odair? That name doesn't sound familiar, though," Mitch says.

"No one uses their real name, out there. He told me." Annie looks down at her hands; she's clasping and unclasping them compulsively, and seems to need to make a conscious effort to stop. "They're selfish people, but they love him. They just want him to be happy. He just wants to have his own life." She pauses, then turns to me with a gentle, open look that makes my heart ache. Her green eyes pierce mine. "Wouldn't that be nice to do? Go across the country, somewhere that no one knew you, and have a different name, and just…start all over."

I frown at her, then over at Peeta. He's giving Annie the strangest look: a thoughtful frown tinged with sadness.

We stay with Annie until the scene outside clears up, Finn being led away in cuffs and the Crestas beating a hasty retreat. After the crowd disperses, we make plans to get together for a late lunch/early dinner. Di says she'll stay awhile so she and Annie can study together, and the rest of us disperse.

As soon as Peeta's door closes behind the two of us, he spins around and pounds his fist into the wall beside the door, once. Twice.

Blood blooms on his knuckles; I jump and back up two giant steps, bumping into the mini-fridge.

He faces the wall, shoulders heaving, until he's got his breathing under control. Then he turns with a sheepish smirk, loping toward the bed and fishing a book from underneath it.

I watch him silently. We don't talk about Gale, or Annie, or Peeta's bloody hand, because I don't know where to begin, and I'm not sure what to ask him. But the thoughtful look doesn't leave his face all afternoon.

...

It's study week, so naturally there are plenty of parties.

The only one I'm attending takes place off campus, at Finn's apartment in the Old Port. He lives above a high end handcrafters' gallery named Abacus; the first time Peeta saw the place, we didn't escape for three hours, and I swear he became personal friends with everyone who worked there, asking them about the art, furniture and jewelry in minute detail.

We stop by the shop on the night of the party just as they're closing, before heading up to Finn's. The guy behind the counter greets Peeta by name, clapping him on the shoulder as they shake hands. I just shake my head and turn my attention to the jewelry case again. I'm not a big wearer of jewelry, but the stuff here is really beautiful, and it's enough to keep me occupied until it's time to go upstairs.

"See anything you like?" He wraps his arms around me from behind, and I wiggle around until I'm facing him.

"I do now."

His grin widens and he chuckles. "Okay...that was a little cheesy..."

I playfully slap his arm and we head up the stairs; it's a long flight of stairs and they're steep, which is awkward for him, but we take it slow and just enjoy one another's company for a few more minutes.

"Hola!" Yells Finn, throwing open the door, having handily made bail and none the worse for a few hours in the slammer Thursday night. "Bienvenidos a la casa Odair." I roll my eyes and push past him, shrugging off my coat.

Peeta laughs and claps him on the back. "How many deep are you, amigo?"

Finn booms out a laugh. "Enough. Come on, give me your coats.."

I throw my coat to Finn and plant myself on the couch next to Annie, who's surveying the party. I join her: it's a small one-bedroom with a combined living/dining/kitchen area, kind of like my place. It's an old building with drafty windows and beautiful molding on the doorways, with shelves built into the walls and hardwood floors that creak. The large main room is strewn with small white twinkle lights, and about 20 people are crowded around the place, huddled around the table or off together in corners. It's an even mix of people from school and those that Finn knows from the station.

"How are you?" I ask her. The lights are dimmed, and I can't really tell anything from her expression. She's been quiet the last few days, understandably, wandering the halls like a ghost, only occasionally answering questions.

She shrugs. "I'm here."

"Ready for finals?"

She raises an eyebrow at me. "Are you?"

"Fuck, no." I chuckle.

"Get up, you two!" Finn booms at us. Even in the low light I can tell his face is flushed. "We're doing Christmas jello shots." He grabs Annie by the hands and drags her to the kitchen area; she glances back at me with a help-me expression, but I just laugh into my hand. I get up and wander away before Finn can find me with one of those little red or green containers.

Peeta's already in conversation with some of Finn's coworkers, so I wander over to a quiet corner of the apartment. My m.o. at parties is to stick like glue to people I know, or to find a quiet corner.

Before I can get bored, though, a beautiful object catches my eye from behind a ficus plant, and I find an occupation.

I reach out and touch it, running my fingers over the smooth wood, and I'm bombarded with a flood of memories.

I pick it up: a solid, but familiar weight. It's been so long...

"I see you've found my guitar," Finn calls from across the room. He ambles over to me, weaving slightly.

I glance up, shaking my head. I pluck the strings lightly with my fingers, damping them again almost immediately with the flat of my palm. The sound is crisp and clear, and I shiver a bit. I catch Peeta watching me curiously from across the room, and I smile a little as I say, "This is not just a guitar."

"Oh no?"

"This is a Taylor reserve." I run my fingers over the neck. "Is this mahogany? And what about these inlays? They're gorgeous..."

He shrugs. "Fucked if I know. Parents got it for me last year. I don't really play. Why?" He raises his eyebrows at me. "Do you?"

Oh no. I see where this is going. Peeta walks over to us as I reply, trying to keep my voice casual. "Oh, just a bit. We haven't been able to afford lessons since I was twelve or so, and I had to sell my own guitar a while back..." I run my fingers over the strings again, and wince; it's badly out of tune. "My dad taught me," I add.

"Well I was thinking about selling this one. Real cheap?"

I shake my head. "Oh no. I...it's been a long time. Really."

He shrugs. "Well, go ahead. Try it out...someone might as well play it."

I lift the shoulder strap over my head, excitement fluttering in my belly. It has been a long time. And this part of my life was over. _ Is _over. I settle myself in a corner of the sofa, slide the pick out of the fretboard, and tune the guitar, putting my ear down next to the strings and plucking them as softly as I can. It's noisy in here, but I still know what an E sounds like, and on this baby, it's got a beautiful sound.

I finally get everything in line, and I try out a few bar chords and arpeggios just to get warmed up. I wince again; my callouses are gone.

I look up to find Peeta seated next to me, watching me and softly smiling. I meet his eyes and then quickly look back at the instrument, running through a few more chords and whatever warmups I can remember. "My nails are too long," I mumble. "Callouses are gone, too."

I strum and tune and try to remember, and eventually the conversations start back up around me, and I'm in a cocoon of silence and I'm filling it up with music...and I've almost forgotten how. My fingers are bigger, now, than they used to be, which is funny because most of the time, I feel like I really haven't done much growing in the past eight years. I still feel, in my heart, like that twelve year old girl clinging to her dad's old guitar and hoping like hell she won't have to sell it to buy food.

And then having to sell it to buy food.

The music is coming back to me. That one song. It's devilishly hard to play, especially now that I'm so out of practice, but I remember the pride on Dad's face the day he finally told me_ I think you're ready to learn this one. It's my favorite._

I run through a rough version first, faking the hard stuff and just playing softly through, humming along, singing a few words here and there, dropping an octave when I need to. I remember his hands over mine, I remember the pencil marks on the sheet music. I remember listening to these records with him, singing along while he played.

I play around for a while, smoothing over the hard parts but remembering more and more. The party, the noise and the people and the twinkle lights have faded by the time I'm ready to start at the beginning. I pick out the notes as best I can; anyone could tell I'm flubbing this up. I hum through the first line just to get my bearings, make sure I still remember how to synch up my playing and singing.

It's harder than I remember.

But I sing the second line a little more clearly. _Made up my mind to make a new start...I'm going to California with an aching in my heart. _It makes my heart burst, to be singing this again. It makes me remember him.

I sing the rest as softly as I can, surprising myself by remembering every word, and I don't notice the silence that's fallen around me until I'm singing the last line, really faking the accompaniment now and hoping there are no real musicians here to cringe at my efforts. _Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams...telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems..._

I finish with a few lame bar chords and look up...

Everyone is staring at me.

Peeta's jaw has just about hit the floor. Finn has the widest smile on his face, half the people I don't even know are frozen with their beers halfway to their lips. Annie is over in a corner, tears running down her face while Di pulls her into a hug.

Shit. I even made Annie cry.

"...It wasn't that bad, was it?"

This is met with a few guffaws, followed by a smattering of applause that I'm sure is sarcastic. I finally meet Peeta's eyes, my face burning.

"Bad?" he deadpans. "You're joking, right?"

"Okay, okay," I say, lifting the beautiful guitar's strap from my shoulder and over my head. "So I'm a little out of practice-"

"You're really not taking _any_ music classes at all?" Mitch interrupts, coming up beside Finn.

"Um, no." I hold the guitar out to Finn like a hot potato, and he takes it from me slowly. "Why would I?" People are finally beginning to look away from me; I sink back into the couch.

"Uh..." Finn leans forward, widening his eyes and speaking slow and loud, like I'm a kindergartener. "...Because you're amazing?"

"You really are, Kat." Annie walks up behind Finn and slips her arms around his neck; he reaches up to grab one of her hands, but doesn't look away from me.

"Remember the old middle school talent shows?" pipes a voice from behind me. I look up and smile as Madge make her way over from the far side of the room. She's gorgeous as always, but she's here alone, and she has several of Finn's coworkers hanging on her every move. "We used to kick ass. You on guitar, me on keyboard, and Gale-"

"Yeah well. You can't make any money playing music."

She leans over the back of the couch, frowning.

"You could," Peeta says. He's watching me with a sexy half-smile, and suddenly I want very much to leave. With him.

Instead, I snort and burrow further into the couch. "I want to have a steady job some day, guys. I want Prim to be able to pick any college she wants, when the time comes." I look away from Peeta, to find the others still watching me; Annie looks almost mournful. "And after that, any medical school."

"What about what you want?" Peeta's voice is so soft; I'm not sure anyone else heard him.

I answer the same way, my voice fading to nothing in the end. "It doesn't matter what I want."

Even now, after knowing me for months, I don't know if he truly gets it. How close Prim and I come, every month, to not breaking even. The money in the bank pays for tuition, but not much else, and I worked and saved very carefully for two years to make up the difference, to be able to support both of us in school. And still, we have to budget. I have to tell him 'no' to evenings out, or I have to let him treat me, more often than I would wish.

To spend that precious money on something like music lessons...I can't even imagine it, now.

So no, it doesn't matter how much I once loved music and wanted to make it my life. It's not a luxury I can afford now, and I haven't been able to for a long time. It's a sad truth.

The sadness is reflected in his eyes as he looks back at me, as he watches me watch Finn put the beautiful guitar back on its stand, and the party goes on.

...

After, we are walking back to Mitch's car through the cobblestoned streets; it's cold and windy this close to the harbor, but we're lagging behind Mitch and Di, and I'm shivering against Peeta's side. He's got me wrapped inside his coat, one arm around me. Every once in a while, he stumbles on a cobblestone and my arm tightens around his waist.

I think we're holding each other up, at this point.

We pause on a street corner as a taxi rolls by; he holds me back before I can step off the curb. Pulls me close and whispers, "Come home with me."

"What?"

"When finals are over. Come home with me. For Christmas break."

I frown. "But...it's four weeks. I can't leave Prim."

He smiles, kisses my icy cheek. "Of course, I meant both of you. You and Prim. Just for Christmas week? My parents always have a New Years party. Prim has school vacation too, right?"

"Right..." I squirm a little. "But...come on. There's no way I could impose on your family like that."

He's shaking his head. "No imposing. We have a guest room, and it'll sit empty unless you two use it. You practically_ have _to come."

"But..."

"I've already talked to my dad about it. He's really excited! He can't wait to meet you..."

"What? Peeta." I try to push away, but he catches me.

"Please?" And now, here come the sad-puppy eyes. Employed to maximum effect here under the street lamps, his lashes making shadows on his cheeks.

"I'm not going to have any presents for your family. I can barely afford them for mine. And there's no way I'll be getting plane tickets this late..."

He holds out his hands, and begins ticking off my excuses. "No presents necessary. I don't care about that and neither do they. And we're taking Amtrak because I don't like to fly. And..." He pulls me close and whispers the rest into my hair. "And I_ love _you. And I want my family to meet you."

Well, shit.

I'm going to West Virginia.

...

**A/N Aaaaaaand how did you like that setup for an Everlark Christmas? You may notice a distinct lack of K/P drama in this chapter and the next one, as compared to the previous two. I figured my characters (and readers) needed a break from the angst. Be assured, it will return in full force. Brace yourselves.**

**Fellow Led-heads will notice that I stole a few lines from **_**Going to California**_**, my favorite Zeppelin tune. Don't hate me, Jimmy Page. I steal out of love.**

**Fic plug: MooseDeEvita has recently updated her fic **_**The One Who Hung the Moon**_**, and it is really excellent. Go check it out if you haven't yet! k bye**


	10. We're a Happy Family

**A/N If there's one regret I have, it's that I'm not able to reply to all of my reviews. There just are not enough hours in the day, and I'm finding it difficult to even find time for writing, lately. (See my profile for details.) Be assured that I read each and every one, and I take them all to heart, even (and perhaps especially) the more critical ones. I'm learning so much from you ladies. There are so many talented people here. *Everlark writers' conference, anyone?***

Chap 10: We're a Happy Family

So here I am: lying next to my snoring sister in the most comfortable bed, under the coziest down comforter, in the most luxurious guest bedroom I've ever seen, and I still can't sleep. I stare and stare at the ceiling and run through the day in my mind.

I've never been on a train for that long before. Dad used to take me and Prim down to Boston on the Downeaster train to see the Red Sox play, once or twice a summer. That took maybe two hours, a short sprint.

But today was a marathon.

We changed trains twice, once in Boston and once in New York Grand Central, and had it just been me and Prim, I'm sure I would have been freaking the hell out. It's December 23rd and the trains were cramped, hot and smelly. And I've never been out of New England before.

But because we were with Peeta...somehow, it was fun. Even with his leg, and our three bags, and Prim dragging behind us, and not an inch of spare room once we finally found seats, it was fun. He showed up at our place this morning, all smiles, doughnuts in hand. Our first train left at 5AM and while our asses were dragging, you would have thought he'd been up for hours. (He probably had.) He made sure me and Prim got seats together on every train, he made sure we brought pillows-and boy, am I grateful for that-and reading material.

He made friendly conversation with every seat mate he had, all day.

The only time I really got to spend with him was a brief interlude during the last leg of the journey, just before the train pulled into Charleston and just after Prim finally fell asleep, head lolling against her pillow, propped against the cold window. We were both so exhausted by that time that we didn't even speak; he put his arm around me and I nestled into his shoulder and slept through the last hour or so of our journey.

Peeta's dad picked us up at the Amtrak station at midnight: I looked up and there was an older, greyer version of Peeta with a bushy blonde mustache, grinning at the three of us through the glass double doors of the tiny station, wrapping his son in a tight embrace complete with clap on the back, then clasping Prim's and my hands in his and saying, "Welcome, girls. We've been looking forward to this visit; Peeta's been talking about both of you nonstop for months now." His smile was so genuine and his manner so easy, and his hands so large and warm that I physically felt both of us relax immediately.

The Mellarks live about fifteen minutes away from the train station; the only glimpse Prim and I got of the city was a brilliantly-lit bridge spanning the river just beside the train station; Mr. Mellark's SUV turned away from the bridge and the downtown area across the river, and instead navigated a network of winding, wooded roads. Prim buried her face in my shoulder and I stared glassy-eyed out into the night...

...and tried to get used to the air of West Virginia. The winter is still cold, but less...crisp. Gentler. There is no ocean here, to add bite to the wind. The river lies calm.

So here we are, my sister and I, settled into a very nice guest room after an exhaustive day of travel, and my eyes may as well be propped open with tiny sticks. My brain won't shut off.

I can't get Annie out of my head. _ I'm staying with Finn_, she'd said in reply to my quiet inquiry yesterday. She'd smiled with her mouth, but not her eyes, her small backpack slung over her shoulder as she trudged down the dorm stairs past us, just last night. I texted her from the train today: _You doing all right? _She replied: _I'm here._

I can't get Peeta's final art project out of my head. I showed up at the studio on "gallery" night, the night all the art students' final projects were due, to find that he'd painted me...from one of his dreams. (Not _that_ kind of dream.) In the painting, I'm tiny, looking down from the high branches of a tree, my face muddy and gaunt, my eyes wide with fear. The sky beyond is tinged pink, whether from the sun setting or because it is an alien sky, and the surrounding trees are shadowed and less defined, so that my own precarious perch stands out in sharp relief.

I recognized myself in the picture that night, but I didn't know if anyone else would. I stared into my own eyes, my eerie presence ringing in my own ears. _ Are you mad? _he'd asked sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. All I could do was shake my head and marvel at the way I could almost feel the pine-scented wind, the rough bark, the swaying of the boughs. The fear, which somehow overwhelmed the painting, infused into every stroke, so what you got from it was dread. The pink sky made the whole thing jarring, apocalyptic. Not what you'd expect from someone like Peeta. I used to wonder what he did with all his fear; now, I think I know.

And hard as I try, I can't get out of my head last year's Christmas. Working the late shift and coming home to Prim curled up on Hamish's couch, the man himself huddled on the bathroom floor. I'd pulled him back to bed and crawled onto the couch with Prim, and the next day we'd visited the Hawthornes; Gale, Madge and I spent Christmas Eve at Ripper's while everyone else was at church.

How times have changed. This year, there will be no one to move Hamish from the bathroom floor to his room. I barely speak to Gale or Madge any more. My sister and I are hundreds of miles away from home, and I'm not clear on exactly what I've done to bring all this about, but it's culminating in my dry-eyed insomnia.

I finally nod off as the sun is coming up, and get maybe one dreamless, unsatisfying hour of sleep.

...

I wake to the smell of bacon and cinnamon.

The sun is slanting orange rays through the gauzy white curtains, and Prim is already dressed and perched on the edge of the bed, staring daggers at me.

"I take it you've been up for a while?" My voice is a low groan; I push myself upright and swipe at my hair, spitting a few strands out of my mouth. The sheets on my side of the bed have been pulled out from under the mattress and are tangled around my feet; I kick them away and fight free of the blanket.

"Kat." Prim bounces up and down on the bed. "Oh my god. I'm so hungry. Can you please please please get up?"

"Uhm." We did kind of forget about dinner last night. Wrinkling my nose, I bring my hand up to my mouth to smell my own breath. _Yowza_. Forgot to brush my teeth, also. "Gimme a few minutes, Ducky. I've got dragon breath."

"Who _cares_."

I mumble something about my boyfriend caring, and she grins, picking up a pillow and aiming for my head.

"Well hurry up then."

My stomach snarls at her in reply, and we both laugh. I crouch down beside my bag, and look up at the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall and a soft knock on the door.

"S'open," I say softly, and Peeta sticks his head in, smiling when he catches sight of the disheveled bed, and disheveled me.

"My dad sent me up to wake you two. We've got breakfast when you're ready."

"You guys always get up this early?" I rasp at him.

"Hey. We're bakers." He winks and ducks back out again, to a chorus of giggles from Prim.

This is his family, and if the guest room and the guest bathroom (the _guest_ freaking_ bathroom_) are any indication, they are not used to seeing the threadbare shirts and broken-in jeans I am used to wearing. I pick a newer sweater and my one pair of Dockers and quickly change, in the bathroom that's probably bigger than my kitchen. And smells better, too.

Prim and I venture out into the hallway and pause at the top of the stairs: the white carpeting of the upstairs hallway gives way to polished hardwood in the large, open foyer below.

"How did I miss this last night?" I whisper.

Prim just shrugs, and shrinks in on herself. I can tell she's thinking what I'm thinking: There's some mistake. There's no way we belong here. I guess it was too dark, or I was too tired last night to really see the wealth that their house reveals. But now, in the harsh light of morning, I can't help but feel how out of place I am. Like a squatter.

Along the hallway and stairwell hang family photos, and I concentrate on those as we make our way downstairs, Prim gripping my hand tight: the three boys as babies, smiling blonde and rosy-cheeked; Peeta at around ten, buried in the midst of his family, holding his dad's hand and (it may be my imagination) leaning away from his beautiful but brittle-looking mom.

He's never mentioned her, I realize. Not once.

About halfway down, I pause when I catch sight of a large framed print of Peeta in his baseball uniform, bat slung over his shoulder. He's about sixteen, squinting a bit into the sun; his grin is lopsided, cocky and confident, and he's a bit more solid-looking than the man I know today. This must have been taken before his illness was discovered. I recognize the blue and yellow team jersey he's wearing, and smile.

We practically tiptoe down the rest of the stairs and pause again at the bottom; several male voices are booming and echoing from the back of the house, and we walk out into the most amazing kitchen in the world. It's all done in gorgeous blue tile, with shiny appliances and what seems like miles of counter space. Peeta's leaning against the center island, laughing loudly at an older man I recognize as one of his brothers, who's sitting at the large, oval kitchen table. His dad has his back to us, and he's pulling a baking sheet out of the top portion of a double oven: it's the cinnamon rolls we smelled from upstairs. _Amazing..._

Peeta catches sight of us and straightens, his face brightening. "Hey ladies. Good morning."

Mr. Mellark sets the sheet down on the stovetop and turns around, sliding his oven mitts off. "Girls! You're up."

I force a smile, trying to avoid looking at his brother, who is openly staring at us. Well, at me. "Yes sir...um, I guess we're not used to rising with the sun."

He laughs, a booming, jolly, infectious sound. "Please," he says, waving a hand. "'Sir' is my father. Call me Tim." I must be giving him a skeptical look without meaning to, because he chuckles again. "Okay then, Mr. Mellark it is. Anything but 'sir.'" He turns back to the oven, opening the bottom door and pulling out a second tray; this one holds steaming rolls with what looks like melted cheese on top, and my mouth waters. "And not many people keep our kind of hours."

Peeta rounds the center island, rolling his eyes at me and pulling me in for a quick hug; I bury my nose in his shirt, inhale and feel instantly better. He ruffles Prim's hair. "Have a seat, I'll load up some plates for you."

Prim and I settle ourselves at the table opposite Peeta's brother, who continues to study me with unabashed interest. It's actually kind of rude, so I make a point of studying him right back: he's taller and lankier than Peeta, his bones jutting out at his wrists and his jaw square and sharp, and his hair is a shade darker and pin-straight. But you can tell they're brothers by their eyes, and the easy way they carry themselves, which in this brother manifests itself as obnoxious cockiness.

Peeta sets down a plate of cinnamon rolls and another of cheese buns and plunks down next to me, handing out smaller paper plates from a stack at the end of the table. He clears his throat and stares across the table. "Katniss, Prim, this is my _very rude _brother Micah, who doesn't like to introduce himself to guests."

His brother shakes himself, then extends his hand to me. "Mike." I take the hand; it's warm and calloused, and he pumps my arm once and then lets go. "Katniss." He turns to my sister and does the same. "Prim."

Prim's face turns tomato-red and she looks down into her lap.

"So..." I trail off, and Mike zeroes in on me again. "What do you do for fun around here?"

Mike barks out a little laugh, grinning off to the side. "I work with Dad. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"Oh, come on, now," Mr. Mellark says, settling down next to Mike, and setting two more platters in front of him: one with Belgian waffles, the other with bacon. My stomach growls again, and everyone turns their heads toward me, but Mr. Mellark pretends not to hear. "What's not fun about working for the family business?"

"How about not getting a raise in three years?" Mike grumbles, grabbing a plate and piling food onto it while his father does the same.

"You'll get a raise when you show me you're ready to be a manager." Mr. Mellark hands Mike a small carafe of maple syrup; Mike douses his food with the stuff, grabbing a cheese bun with the other hand and stuffing it into his mouth. "Until then, you could take a page out of Alicia's book."

"Alicia's a suck-up," Mike mumbles, through a mouthful of bun.

I glance between the two of them, grinning, as the argument goes on, an argument I'm sure has happened many times. Peeta just shakes his head and loads up two plates for me and Prim before helping himself.

"Do you guys eat like this every day?" I ask.

"No," Mr. Mellark says. "I'm at work by this time on a normal day. But this..." He pops a strip of bacon into his mouth. "This is a special occasion." He smiles over at my sister and me, chewing. "I just need to go in for a few hours this afternoon to help close up for the holiday. But Jonah and his crew should be here by then."

I raise my eyebrows, and Peeta supplies, "My other brother."

"Yeah," says Mike. "The good one."

"Hey now," Peeta says. "There's more than one good brother." He pauses as Mike looks up. "You're forgetting me." He says it with such a sweet smile that I can't help chuckling.

I glance at Mr. Mellark again, to find that he's watching Prim and stifling a laugh. I look over to find that she's tearing into a cinnamon roll that's almost as big as her head, and the icing has coated her mouth and chin. I wait until she puts the thing down, and wordlessly hand her a napkin; she takes it, her face flaming. I catch Mike watching her with a half-grin on his face, and it doesn't look teasing. It looks fond.

And just like that, I decide I like him.

Shortly after, Tim rises to get ready for work with a "You're very welcome, girls; our home is your home," and Mike retreats to his room with a "Later, all..." Mike clears his throat before disappearing upstairs; I look over at him in time to catch him raising one eyebrow at Peeta, nodding slowly and pointing in my general direction. Peeta shakes his head and shoos his brother away, but I can tell by his small grin that he's pleased.

I find myself staring out the large picture window as Peeta starts clearing the plates. It looks out onto their back yard. A coating of snow blankets the ground, and thins out to irregular patches under the trees that grow thicker the farther you look. There are a healthy mix of hardwoods: birch, beech and even maple, woven together, and somewhere back there is the old coal mine Peeta talked about.

_The cave_. Had he ever called it that? No, that's what the picture beside his bed back in Maine was titled. The cave.

I shiver, coming back to myself. I can't deny that those woods look inviting, but it would be a cold walk today. Instead, Prim and I help Peeta load the dishwasher, and then head upstairs for a nap (Prim) and a much-needed shower (me).

...

"Kat, where's Peeta's mom?" Prim pipes up from the bed in the guest room; I hadn't realized she was awake. I took an extra-long shower; the bathroom adjoining this room seems to have an unlimited supply of hot water. We're used to the water heater cutting off and the water going icy after about five minutes at home, so I indulged.

I freeze in the process of braiding my hair back, the smile falling away from my face as I meet her eyes in the mirror. _That is a damn good question. _In all the time we've been together, with as much as we've shared with one another, Peeta has never once mentioned his mom. He doesn't have a picture of her, or indeed of any of his family at school; he has a few random shots on his phone, but the first time I saw his mom was when I examined that photo on the stairs.

"I don't know..." A creep of unease makes its way into my gut, and I do my best to push it down, to make my voice light, but I must be doing a crappy job because Prim's face pulls into a frown. "I don't really know the situation." _Why? Why don't I know?_

"You guys have never talked about it?"

"No..." And now that she mentions it, it's really strange that we haven't. "He doesn't talk about himself. You know?" He always changes the subject when I try. He does it so subtly and so skillfully that I'm not even sure he's aware he's doing it.

"Yeah. I do know." I turn from the mirror and she's still frowning at me; I shrug my shoulders and widen my eyes. "It's just..." Prim shrugs back at me, and her voice takes on a nervous edge. "If there's something we should know...I'd rather know beforehand."

"Like what?"

"I don't know...are they divorced? Separated?"

Footsteps thump in the hall outside, and we freeze, but they pass our door quickly. They are a little too quick and even to be Peeta's, and I think immediately of Mike. Prim and I catch one another's eyes once more; we're both too skittish to say anything more when it's possible Mike or Peeta will overhear us, but I can see the wheels turning behind her eyes. She's set a few wheels turning in my head, as well, and I'm in much need of reassurance.

By now it is close to noon; when we descend the stairs once again, there is a cacophony from the kitchen; we eye one another before entering to find Peeta and Mike in loud, animated conversation with a solid-looking man around Peeta's height and a tall, slim woman holding a golden-curled baby. I recognize the man from his photo on the stairs, and sure enough, he is introduced as Peeta's eldest brother, Jonah. His wife is Alicia; as she is moving the baby to her other hip to shake Prim's hand, Prim asks shyly, "Are you the Alicia that Mike is supposed to take a page from?"

There is silence for a beat, and then Peeta catches my eye and we both bust out laughing. Peeta moves in to give Prim a quick hug. "Prim, I love you. Yes, this is the Alicia who works in my dad's shop. And yes, Dad was right; she's very good at her job."

Everyone else (except Mike) laughs too, and Prim's cheeks burn red again. Alicia is smiling broadly as she pulls Prim in for a hug too. "Your dad is much too generous," she tells Peeta, over Prim's head. "But I'll take it." Prim steps back, smiling up at Alicia through her eyelashes, and I can see that, already, my little sister has won this family over. Even Mike; though her comment was a subtle dig at him, he doesn't seem to have taken it personally, and is gazing down at her with a wry smile.

Jonah turns to me. "You must be Katniss..."

I nod, biting my lip and trying to smile. Why is this so much easier for Prim, all this social stuff? This is a far cry from the dry, stilted family interaction we're used to, but she has taken to it immediately. My sister even looks like one of them, with her fair coloring and easy smile.

I guess I'm just taking a bit longer to catch up.

Peeta sidles up beside me and slips an arm around my waist, planting a kiss on my cheek. I blush and duck my head as Jonah says, "Well, it's very nice to meet you."

"Yeah," Alicia adds, leaning down to set the baby on the floor; the little girl toddles a few steps, then falls backward onto her chubby rump, clapping her hands and beaming up at her parents and uncles. Her mother straightens and smiles gently at me. "We were wondering if we were going to get to meet Peeta's mystery woman."

"Mystery woman?" I raise an eyebrow at him. Has he been as closed-lipped about me, when talking to his family, as he was when talking to me about them?

"Hey. I told them plenty." He glares at Jonah and Mike in turn. "Right, guys?"

"Oh, yeah." Mike's voice is dripping with sarcasm. "We knew your name, and that you were incredible and amazing. And..." He turns to Jonah.

"And that's about it, yeah." Jonah grins at me.

And I can't help grinning back; smiling seems to be infectious in this family. "Well...isn't that enough?" And to my surprise, everyone dissolves into laughter again, including Peeta, who leans in to kiss my cheek again.

"C'mon you guys, let's eat," Alicia says, flashing me a smile as she heads to the fridge.

We put together sandwiches for lunch, and then leave the dishes for later as we crowd into the family room to introduce the baby to the Mellarks' enormous Christmas tree. I've walked by the room several times now, but I didn't really appreciate how well the huge and fragrant evergreen filled the space under the high ceiling...or just how many presents were piled underneath.

It's truly a staggering pile of gifts. Prim and I both pause in the doorway to gawk; Jonah and Alicia must have brought some presents over with them, because the pile is easily twice as big as it was before lunch. Beautifully wrapped in shiny paper and bows. It's like nothing we've ever seen.

Prim grips my hand, frowning up at me, and I know she's thinking the same thing I am. We didn't bring anything. I know Peeta told me it wasn't necessary, but...I managed to scrounge up a lame box of chocolates and a cheap bottle of wine for the family, and it seems like a pitiful offering now.

I put my arm around Prim and we join the others in the family room. I can't help but laugh at the way Jonah's daughter has to be physically restrained from throwing herself at the pile of gifts. Alicia scoops her up and carries her over in my direction just as Prim is distracted by Mike and Peeta (and Mike's smartphone) across the room.

I have a moment of panic; I'm not great with kids. I don't really remember Prim as a baby, apart from not really liking the smell of dirty diapers, and I was a less than adequate (and totally uninterested) babysitter for Gale's little brother and sister, considering what was going on in my life at the time. Not being a naturally upbeat person, I can't really engage little kids in the way they need to be.

So I'm more than a bit nervous when Alicia greets me with, "Would you like to hold Mary?"

"I, uh..." And then the squirming bundle is in my lap. She's surprisingly solid, and feels stronger than I expected; I have to strain to hold her up as she cranes around to look at me while Alicia plops down on the couch next to me. The baby and I regard one another nervously for a few seconds; then, Mary pokes my cheek with one chubby finger, I grab hold of her impossibly soft hand, and we smile at one another. She has two teeth on top and two on the bottom, and makes a cooing sound at me.

Alicia groans, massaging her back with one hand. "That's a load off..."

"Um, how old is she?" I ask, as baby Mary grabs the end of my braid and yanks. I wince and try to gently pry her fingers away, but she's having none of it.

"Thirteen months," Alicia says. "Aren't you? Yes you are!" She brings her face close to her daughter's and plants a kiss on her nose; Mary disengages her hand to bat at her mother's head. "She's a little devil right now."

"She's wonderful," I say. "She looks like you." And she does: her curly hair is the same honey-blonde, a darker shade than the Mellarks', and her lovely brown eyes are clearly Alicia's.

"So they tell me." Alicia smiles, and speaks to Mary again. "Can you say 'Katniss?'" The baby stares back and forth between her mother and me. "'Katniss!'"

I feel a bit foolish, until Mary squeaks out a tentative, "Tat..."

My mouth falls open. "She totally just said my name..."

"She did! Mary, 'Katniss?'"

"Tat. Tat!" Mary claps and bounces up and down on my knees, then squirms to get down, grabbing my braid again for purchase as she lowers herself to the floor.

Alicia laughs, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "That's it; you're in."

"I'm in?"

"Yes. You are in." She shakes her head as her daughter toddles across the room toward her uncles. Peeta crouches down and holds out his arms, and I can't help but melt a bit as he scoops the baby up and swings her around. "Not that it's hard to get in good with this crowd." I look back at her, and she's studying me closely, not in a mean way, but in a way that says she's still trying to figure me out. "They're pretty great guys."

"That they are." I look back at Peeta; he's handed the baby to Mike, who's tossing her into the air repeatedly, causing Prim to shriek and cover her mouth with both hands. Alicia chuckles, but when I look back at her, the smile is fading. "I know you're nervous about being here. I was intimidated at first, too. Only child? Coming into this family? Forget it. But...you don't need to be nervous about these boys."

_But? _

"But, I feel like I should warn you. About-"

"Oh, dear sister in law!" It's Mike, closing on us from across the room and holding his neice at arms' length. "Dirty diaper alert. This is where my fun-uncle duties end." He dumps baby Mary in Alicia's lap on his way back out to the kitchen.

Alicia sniffs tentatively, then wrinkles her nose. "Ugh. He wasn't kidding." She stands, settling Mary onto her hip and turning back to me. "We'll talk later, okay?" She hurries away toward the upstairs bathroom.

Leaving me to wonder what the hell she was trying to warn me about.

...

Mr. Mellark returns from closing the bakery later that afternoon-but before Alicia and I have a chance to 'talk' again-and the family sits down for an early dinner. Just as my family has its Chinese Thanksgiving, the Mellarks seem to have a Christmas Eve tradition of take-out pizza.

"Yeah! Pizza," Prim squeals, earning her a round of laughter.

"The real feast is tomorrow evening," Peeta's dad explains as he serves the slices out onto more paper plates. "Tonight, we do pizza, and then everyone gets to open one gift before church."

_Church? _Oh, crap.

He must catch my look of utter panic, because he chuckles and adds in a low voice, "Totally optional, of course. I'm really the only one who goes, any more...old habits die hard." He pauses, then adds, "My wife spends Christmas Eve with her family in Pittsburgh. She'll come home tomorrow, and then we'll have our real celebration."

I bite my lip as he moves off down the table. _Well, that's one question answered, anyway..._I let my gaze fall onto each person around the table, in turn. My sister, digging into her slice and smiling broadly, completely in her element. Mike, slouched in his chair and hissing a whispered conversation with Jonah while simultaneouly fiddling with his phone. Alicia, settling the baby in her high chair and cutting a slice of cheese pizza into extra-tiny bits. And directly across from me...

Peeta's studying me, a soft smile on his face. I realize I'm smiling, too; it's hard not to.

_I love you_, he mouths wordlessly, in the midst of the noise.

I bite my lip, look down at the table's wood grain, then back at him. I search for his foot under the table with my own, hooking my heels around his ankle. _ I love you..._my lips form the words.

He reaches for my hands, twining our fingers together on the tabletop as his dad settles down to eat at the opposite end of the table, the baby begins throwing bits of pizza on the floor and Jonah and Mike's discussion becomes more heated. I tune out the happy chaos.

Outside, it begins to snow.

...

Evening has fallen, and the group is lounging around the TV room. I'm not really paying attention to whatever's on the screen; Peeta's dad has turned on the porch light out back, and I find my eyes drifting back to the falling snow outside the windows, the rush of white blotting out any view of the woods beyond. I'm burrowed deep into the cushions of a love seat, with baby Mary half-sitting, draped across my chest and stomach and drifting closer and closer to sleep. Prim is curled up beside me, while Peeta and Mike are hunched over a chess board across the room. When we walked in here, the chess board was already set up, and the two of them began moving the pieces around haphazardly, only briefly interrupting their conversation. The game became more and more intense, the words petered out, and soon enough they were both frowning in silent concentration.

Mr. Mellark, Jonah and Alicia are upstairs getting ready for church, and the baby (I've been told) needs a nap before venturing out again, but she won't settle down. Each time I think she's drifted off, she shakes herself awake again with a weak cry, and begins chewing on her own wrist. I wish I could turn off the TV, as no one is really watching, but I'm unwilling to remove myself as the human pillow for Mary, and also for Prim, who's drifting off as well.

After Mary shakes herself into whining wakefulness for a third time, I become desperate and start humming under my breath, searching my memory for a suitable lullaby. Nothing comes to mind, until...

"Sing her the Valley Song," Prim whispers.

I glance at her, a smile stealing onto my lips. Our father's old song for us. I don't know whether he made it up himself (I wouldn't be surprised) or whether it's an old folk tune that was handed down in his family; I never got to ask him. The last time I heard it, I was eavesdropping from the hallway in our old house as he sang it to five-year-old Prim. I can't even believe she remembers.

I close my eyes, recalling his voice and his words, and find that I remember every bit of the old song. I take a few deep breaths and begin softly,

_Down in the valley...under the willow... _

The baby stills her squirming immediately, her solid weight relaxing against me. I smile as I sing some more. Mary's tiny fists open and close, her head dips back and forth and then gradually sags down onto her shoulder. By the time I reach the end of the song, she's breathing slow and even, her body slack.

I look up at the sudden silence, to find that Mike has muted the TV, and both he and Peeta are staring over at us. I glance at the doorway; Mr. Mellark and Alicia are hovering there, smiling. I hadn't realized I had an audience; I'd been singing only for the baby in my lap. Alicia tiptoes over to me, ignoring my flaming cheeks as she lifts Mary into her own arms. "Thank you," she murmurs into her daughter's hair.

I clear my throat, rubbing suddenly sweaty palms on my pants, uncomfortable at the identical half-smiles I'm receiving from both Peeta and his dad. I rise and drift into the kitchen, opening a few cabinets until I find a glass and filling it with water from the tap. I hear Alicia, Prim and Mr. Mellark talking quietly back in the family room, but I don't return right away, leaning up against the sink and watching the flying snow outside as I drink my water.

"Come back in the summer," says a deep voice behind me, "And we can walk in the woods." He walks over to me as I set the glass down, pulling me into a warm hug. "Without, you know, freezing our asses off."

"Maybe I will," I say, resting my chin on his chest. Our mouths are inches apart, and his is still softly smiling. "You know...your accent has gotten about ten times thicker since we've been down here."

He frowns. "Naw...it hasn't. Really?" I just laugh silently, and I feel his chest shaking as he does the same. "Okay, fair enough. But, so has yours."

I open my mouth, feigning shock. "I do not have an accent."

"Oh, okay. Whatev-AH."

I bury my face in his shirt, laughing aloud. As a New Englander, I have been known to drop my Rs from time to time. But I'll never admit it. "You're full of shit."

He kisses the top of my head and pulls me tighter into him. "We're about to do presents."

I stiffen. "I...I don't..."

"I told you. It doesn't matter. Come on, I'm sure Mike at least has opened one of his already."

I follow him back into the family room; he and Prim settle onto the couch together and I sit on the floor, leaning back against his legs. As promised, Mike has already opened a gift labeled with his name, and Jonah and Alicia are busy picking one package out of a mound of gifts labeled for the sleeping baby, as well as picking out two for themselves. Mr. Mellark is pulling the paper from another. To my relief, the gift-opening seems to be quite informal, and there's little attention paid to who gives or gets any particular item.

Peeta has me fish out a small package with his name on it; he unwraps a scarf, which he wraps around his neck, saying, "Okay, Prim. Your turn."

"What?" I hear the confusion in her voice, and turn to see her frowning up at Peeta. "But we didn't..."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says. "I see one with your name on it, right there." He points to a side table next to Mr. Mellark's chair; on it, there is a small box marked PRIM.

She glances at the box, then back at him, and then slowly gets up and goes to retrieve her gift. I meet his eyes and slowly shake my head at him; he shrugs and grins down at me, ruffling my hair. I swipe at his hand, inexplicably annoyed, as Prim sits back down. She looks at me, eyebrows raised; I shrug and nod at her.

She tears into the paper, unwrapping what turns out to be an Ipod. "Oh my god," she says.

"Oh...my god," I say. "Peeta...come on. We can't-"

"Oh yes, we can," says Prim. She digs her fingernail into the box, popping the top of it open. "See? It's opened. Can't take it back now." She sticks her tongue out at me, then turns to throw her arms around Peeta's waist, burrowing her head into his shoulder. "Thank you. Very much."

He hesitates before hugging her gently back, smiling at me over her head and shrugging his shoulders again. "I don't know what you're talking about," he repeats. "That's from Santa. Didn't you read the tag?"

"You're full of shit," she says, unconsciously echoing my sentiment from earlier. "Thank you," she repeats.

"Welcome."

"You didn't have to do that," I say, through my teeth.

"Didn't have to do this, either," he says, pulling another small box out from between the couch cushions and tossing it into my lap.

My heart sinks to the floor. He got me a gift. After I told him not to. I turn to him, eyes narrowed; he's pressing his lips together, trying not to smile.

Prim is grinning beside him. "Well...come on! Open it."

I sigh, picking up the small box in my lap. "I told you not to get me anything..." I begin working at a corner of the wrapping, suddenly aware of the silence in the room. I don't dare to look up, just concentrating on unwrapping the small box marked Abacus.

I frown up at him. _He didn't_. He just smiles at me, kicking me softly on the hip. I bat his foot away and settle back against his leg again. I open the box.

It's...

I spin around, mouth open. "How the hell did you know?"

He chuckles. "The neighborhood is crawling with my spies."

I roll my eyes, turning back to the box in my lap. Containing the one piece of jewelry that I'd admired the most, every time we'd gone to visit Finn and stopped at Abacus before heading upstairs. It's a necklace: a single pearl, about the size of my thumbnail, dusky grey, with a tiny silver bird carved into its surface, and it hangs on a simple, hair-thin silver chain. I'd actually asked them to take it out of the case, I remember now, to look at it, the first time we went in the store, back in September. Before Peeta and I were even together. _How in the world did he remember..._

"Look at the back," he says.

I roll the pearl over, and there on the back I see two words carved in delicate silvery script, but I can't read it in the low light. "What?" I turn to him, frowning. "I can't..."

He leans over and flicks on the lamp. "I know, the writing is really tiny. Can you see now?"

Yes, I can. The two words carved onto the pearl along with the songbird are...my name. _Katniss Grace._

I turn around; he's smiling nervously. Prim is beaming and holding out her open hand, waiting for me to pass her the necklace, but I'm not going to. "I..." My throat is dry, and the room is silent and everyone is looking at us. But I don't care. "I really love it."

He sags, relaxing, and his smile grows into something wide and gorgeous. "I'm glad."

"Let's see!" Prim is practically squealing.

But I shake my head. "No way. I'm putting it on first." One glance around the room tells me that they're all watching, and suddenly my hands are shaking too much to do the clasp.

But his hands are there, warm and steady, to help. And the pearl lies just in the hollow at the base of my throat.

I perch on the arm of the chair so Prim can see; this time, she really does squeal, earning a round of chuckles from Peeta's brothers and dad. I half-rise to go around the room with my gift, but Mr. Mellark waves his hand at me.

"Don't worry about it; we've all seen it already."

"What?" I turn back to Peeta.

He's wearing a sheepish expression. "Yeah, I kind of had it shipped down here as soon as you agreed to come visit. I didn't trust myself not to give it to you earlier."

Too...much. All I can do is shake my head at him, and wonder what I did to deserve this.

The group disperses soon thereafter; Mr. Mellark, Jonah and Alicia (and the freshly-napped Mary) are all going to church; I manage to corner Peeta's dad as he's pulling on his jacket in the front hall.

"...Sir?"

"Katniss. What did I tell you about 'sir?'"

I chuckle, looking down at my feet. "All right, then. Tim?"

"That's better."

"I just...I wanted to thank you. Again. For...having us. For Christmas. It's. It's really, um, different. From what Prim's used to. And it's...it's just...I'm really glad to be here." _Jesus, Kat. Inarticulate much?_

But he either hasn't noticed my awkwardness, or he's too nice to say it. He grins, and it's so spontaneously joyful that I'm reminded strongly of Peeta as he rests his hand on my shoulder and squeezes lightly. "No. We're the ones who are grateful to have you and your sister here." He glances back into the family room, where Peeta and Mike are working on their chess game again. "I haven't seen my son this happy in a long time."

I duck my head, frowning. "I...can't pretend to take credit for that."

He just smiles again when I look up, shaking his head. "You have no idea."

...

So here I am, almost 24 hours later, lying in the same bed and staring at the same ceiling. My sister has been asleep beside me for half an hour now. You'd think I'd be exhausted, but I'm wired, buzzing. Needful.

I finally get up, deciding that a glass of water is just the thing I need. Maybe a cheese bun, also. I walk as softly as I can down the carpeted hallway and hug the railing as I'm going down the stairs. One creaks near the bottom, and I wince, hoping that Peeta's and Mike's bedrooms are far enough away that I won't wake them.

I gulp down some water and grab a bun from the covered basket on the kitchen island, and wander into the family room. The Christmas tree is still lit, and I drift over to stand in front of it, allowing the white, red, blue and green lights to fuzz out of focus for my tired eyes, and leaning in to idly examine some of the ornaments, fingering the pearl that still lies at my throat.

I tear apart the bun and slowly chew, taking in the shining lights and green boughs. Prim and I never have a tree this big; we always find the Charlie Brown-est tree we can find and nurse it through the holidays on our kitchen table.

I hear a loud creak behind me, and feel a grin spreading across my face as I turn to see Peeta rounding the bottom of the staircase. "Damn creaky stair," he mutters.

"Did I wake you?"

"No. I couldn't sleep." He walks over to the tree; I turn my back to him as he appraoches and he wraps his arms around me from behind, pulling me close and burying his face in my shoulder, then my throat. "Couldn't stop thinking about you. Being here in my house." I feel him smiling against my skin. "It's pretty awesome. It's..."

I turn to rest my forehead against his, and he leans in to kiss me. There's a surprising heat behind it, and I find myself dizzy when we finally pull away. "Whoa."

"Come back upstairs with me," he mumbles into my neck.

"Um." I gulp. _Oh...don't tempt me_. "Why?"

"You know why."

"What?" I catch his eye, laughing a little, until I see that he's serious. "We...can't." My eyes flit away, back to the stairs, the front door. I don't know when his dad is getting home. I don't want to wake his brother. I don't want to accidentally fall asleep in his bed and have to explain it to Prim tomorrow.

"Well, we'll just..." He nips at my ear, and I shiver. "...Have to be quiet."

I snort, shaking my head. "Take your own advice, pal."

"That sounds like a challenge."

"Maybe it is."

"You're on."

We manage to avoid the creaky stair, at least, on the way back up, but I'm not sure we do such a good job of stifling our laughter behind our hands. Prim, at least, is a heavy sleeper; I'll just have to hope that Mike is too.

_This is crazy_. I am crazy.

His room is dark, the shades drawn; I can make out pennants and shadowy posters on the walls, a disheveled bedspread, and not much else. I slither out of my sweatpants as I crawl between the sheets, and he lands heavily beside me, pausing to take off his leg with his back to me. As always, he's curved away from me just enough that I wouldn't be able to see him do it, even if the lights were on.

I smooth my hand over his back, enjoying the ripple of muscle as he moves. "I wish you wouldn't hide from me like that," I whisper.

He turns; I can feel him searching my face in the dark. "I'm not..."

I pull him down to me: down, down, until he's squarely on top of me. I slide my fingers under the waistband of his pants, savoring his weight on me, how I can feel his every small movement as he adjusts himself. "Yes...you do." It's barely a whisper, and I couldn't say it in the daylight.

He props himself up on his elbows, cradling my face in his hands. I can feel him frowning, and it won't do.

"I like you, the way you are. You don't have to hide." I say it right into his ear, and then I take his earlobe between my teeth and bite down.

He moans out loud.

"Ssssh," I remind him, grinning as I work his pants lower along his hips; he lifts up slightly, lowers one of his hands, and they're off.

He settles onto me again; I shift myself until he's positioned just so, between my thighs. He is so hard and I am so, so wet, and we are both just...poised.

"My god," he breathes. "I love you so damn much."

"I...aaaaaah." He's inside me all at once, and my response turns into a moan that is a bit louder than I would have liked.

"Ssssssh," he reminds me, thrusting forward a little more. I bite down on my lower lip, stifling a squeak, curling my fist into his hair and wrapping my legs around his hips.

This is not going to take long for either of us. He slips a hand under my shirt and cups one breast, squeezing in time with his quick, hard thrusts, faster and faster, and in the end he squeezes his lips together to stifle a loud moan and I grab his pillow and stuff it against my mouth, and hope it was enough to muffle my shriek.

He lowers his forehead onto mine. We're panting at one another in the dark, fumbling with shaky caresses.

It's bigger than us, this thing we're feeling. It's bigger than words.

"I love you back," I manage finally, and earn myself a deep, wet kiss, his hands tangling into my hair, pulling the tight braid free. When he finally pulls free of my body I give a soft moan, not wanting it to ever, ever end.

I'm still smiling when I shimmy back into my pants, creep over to the door, take one final look back at my beautiful boy. He's propped up on one arm, watching me go, and I can't see his face in the dark, but I know he's smiling back. I'm still smiling, too, when I ease the door shut behind me, and turn to tiptoe back to the guest room.

The smile fades when I catch sight of the open bathroom door, the glaring white light spilling out into the hallway.

The smile disappears when I turn fully, when I find myself staring into a pair of ice-blue eyes not two feet away from me. A chill takes its place when I recognize her face from her portrait on the stairs, the one in which her little boy was leaning away from her, like he was afraid.

I want to turn back time and decide not to go into Peeta's room, I want to curl up into a ball and sink down through the floorboards like a ghost, when I realize that I am face to face...

...with Peeta's mom.


	11. I am trying to break your heart

**A/N the 1st**

**Look at us, with our third place finish in the Energize WIP contest! Thanks to all my supporters. :) Not too shabby...**

Chap 11: I am trying to break your heart

_Oh no. Oh...no_.

She's staring at me, and her mouth is curled up in a half-smile that I instantly recognize; on Peeta, it's sly and playful and there's kindness behind it. On Mrs. Mellark, it's tinged with far less humor.

My mouth pops open, but I don't know what the hell to say. All I can think is _Please don't tell me she heard us, please please please tell me she didn't hear us. How loud were we, really? How rumpled am I? _I glance down at myself, but thankfully find that I am all covered, at least.

I look back up, conscious of just how guilty that made me look, and her half-smile has grown into a smirk. I open my mouth again, but all I can manage is a barely audible squeak. I think of all the sounds I just made, in that room, with her _son_, and I want to die. Really, to die.

"Well, young lady." Her accent is more pronounced than Peeta's, her voice low and smooth, and barely above a whisper. It sends a chill through me, and my arms wrap around my midsection. She's four or so inches taller than me, and with her chin lifted like that, she really can look down her nose at me. "Welcome to our home."

The words themselves are kind. The coldness behind them is not.

She knows. Shit. _Of course she knows. We can't be quiet to save our lives_. I curse my stupidity. I open my mouth again. Words? No, of course not. My brain can barely manage to keep me breathing right now.

"Hadn't you better get back to bed?"

The voice is just as quiet, the words seemingly innocuous. But it startles me, my hands closing around my own elbows and my teeth coming down hard on my bottom lip. I nod, mute, my heart pounding, face flaming.

She steps back and I turn, stiff-legged, toward the guest bedroom down the hall. I fumble with the knob, my hand shaking. It's only after I am safely behind the door again, my forehead pressed to the cool wood, that I realize I should probably have said something. Anything. I should not have just walked away from her in silence. I just made myself look ten times worse than I did when I first slipped out of Peeta's bedroom.

I am so, so stupid.

...

I manage to crawl into bed beside Prim without waking her, and I manage to pretend, the next morning, that I've slept.

"Are you okay?" she asks, when she rolls over and sees how pale I am, how I'm gripping the bedspread with both fists.

"Yup." I sit bolt upright and fling the covers off; the sheets are still neatly tucked into the mattress, and Prim frowns down at them. "Merry Christmas, Ducky." I force a smile and kiss her on the crown of her head.

She giggles and bats my hand away. "Merry Christmas. Let's go down in our PJs."

"No. I'm getting dressed." I crouch down by my bag, cursing the fact that I only have my grubby jeans and USM sweatshirt. I'll have to ask about doing laundry today, and that will involve talking to Mrs. Mellark...and with that, a bolt of queasy nerves shoots right through my gut. I dress and run a comb through my hair, pulling it back into a braid; Prim does the same. We both look rumpled, but on well-rested Prim it looks cute. On me, it just looks sad and disheveled.

The smell of roasting turkey permeates the whole house; I notice it as soon as we step into the hallway. The place is eerily quiet, today. There is no raucous conversation or laughter as we approach the kitchen, only subdued voices and the sound of oven, refrigerator and cupboard doors opening and closing. I hear the rattle of silverware and the unmistakable tones of Mrs. Mellark asking a question, and a male voice answering quietly.

I grab Prim's hand and stop her before we enter the kitchen; I bite my lip and listen closely.

"...barely made it home the other night. I swear to god, if I have to take that fucking car in for one more repair-"

"Micah. Language." Mrs. Mellark's voice cuts across the still air of the kitchen, and Prim jumps in surprise, looking up at me with wide eyes. I squeeze her hand.

There is a beat of silence from the next room, and then, to my relief, I hear Peeta. "I'll still take the car off your hands, man. How much you asking for it, again?" I can hear the smile in his voice, and a smile creeps onto my face as well, despite my dread of facing his mother.

"More than you can afford."

"Thought you said it was a piece of shit."

"Boys. Language,_ please_." The oven door slams, and this time I'm the one who jumps. I really, really need to get it together. "Peeta, I suggest you think a little more about how much you need to spend on books before you go purchasing an unreliable vehicle." Her words are practically dripping.

"Well...I think that's for me to worry about, Mom..."

"Girls?" murmurs a deep voice behind us, and this time Prim and I both jump. Mr. Mellark has managed to sneak up on us, and when we turn to him he's smiling. He sets a hand on each of our shoulders, squeezing slightly. "No need to knock, the kitchen's open."

I nod and try to smile, letting him steer us into the room.

"Look who I found," Peeta's dad announces loudly, and Mrs. Mellark's eyes snap onto us from across the room. Her face springs up into a smile, but her eyes are narrowed.

I look away, finding Peeta instead, trying to telegraph my distress to him. But he's jumping up from the table with a wide grin. He practically runs over to me, slipping an arm around my waist and kissing my cheek. He punches Prim lightly on the shoulder; she bats his hand away as she did mine earlier. She is instantly relaxed when he's around.

I wish I could be.

"Mom!" Peeta says. _Oh god_. She fixes her narrow-eyed gaze on her son, smiling all the while. "This is my girlfriend, Katniss. And her sister, Prim."

Silence. _Oh god_. Then: "Yes. We've met."

I find that I have a small smile plastered on my own face, too. I don't know where it came from or what it's doing there. I've never felt less like smiling in my life. But I can't shake it. Peeta frowns at me, confused, and I widen my eyes at him, silently willing him to understand.

He shakes his head the smallest bit. He turns back to his mom. "You have?"

_No. _I step forward. "Ma'am. I can't tell you how happy we are to be here, thank you so much for having us." _What? What did I just say? _I sound so normal. So calm. My voice is steady and strong. A challenge.

Her expression hasn't changed. She looks us up and down, first me, and then Prim. I feel my sister shrink back behind Peeta, and I grip her arm. I notice for the first time how well-put together Mrs. Mellark seems to be, even first thing in the morning. Her ice-blonde hair is smooth and gathered back into an elegant knot, she wears a spotless white apron over a nicely tailored silk shirt and pencil skirt, and from the way her feet click on the kitchen tiles, I gather that she's wearing heels.

She's tall and elegant and beautiful and intimidating, and everything I'm not.

And when she next opens her mouth, I feel Peeta's body stiffen beside me. "Yes. Well. A good hostess is always prepared for guests...expected, or not." Her smile widens, and she crosses her arms.

I feel my own expression drop, and a chill of embarrassment overtakes me. Didn't she know we were coming? I look at Peeta, and he's frowning at her.

"Mom," Peeta says. "I told you that we-"

Peeta's dad clears his throat behind us. "Have a seat, girls. Breakfast isn't quite as elaborate as it was yesterday, but we're making up for it with Christmas dinner..." He keeps up a steady stream of chatter as we wander over to the table and seat ourselves. I glance at Mike; he's slumped down in his seat, stirring a bowl of cereal and frowning. He shoots a glance at me, then at his mom, then at Peeta, before looking back at his bowl.

"Yes, girls," adds Mrs. Mellark. "_Please do _make yourselves at home."

I blush through the ensuing silence. I look at Prim as we sit; her face is twisted with confusion, and I know she's wondering where all this tension came from.

I'm not wondering. I know. And my eyes are seething at the boy beside me, the one who's studying his hands in his lap, and who's gone completely silent just when I need him the most.

The one who should have warned me.

...

As wonderful and warm and welcoming as the family was yesterday...that's how cold and awkward it feels today.

I've finally grabbed a moment when Mrs. Mellark's back was turned (and Prim was looking the other way) to whisper to Peeta "_She caught me coming out of your room last night_," and ever since, his face has been pulled into a tight frown, the annoyance silently directed at his mother. She's breezing about the place, talking to everyone and no one, and the uncomfortable atmosphere rolls off of her like a cloying fog.

Prim and I are perched on the edge of the love seat, waiting for the slightest provocation to bolt back up to our room, as Mike already has. He claimed a headache shortly after breakfast, and I've never been so envious of anyone. Mrs. Mellark has been steadily ignoring my sister and I, to the point where Prim has shut down completely. She's such a people-pleaser, and she has no idea why we're being snubbed, and I can't explain it to her.

Peeta and his dad occupy the couch across from us. Peeta has barely been allowed to stir all morning. Every time he goes to get up, his mother jumps in with a "Oh that's all right, dear. Don't bother," or a "You just sit, Peeta dear. We can manage." She brings him food and a blanket (though it must be 75 degrees in here), fetching and carrying and treating him like an invalid.

It's pissing me the hell off.

Peeta just sits there silently, and the expression on his face is so...blank. Defeated. I've never seen that. I think of Peeta living here all those years and having his mother dote on him like this, and silently hating it, as I can see that he does.

I picture him the way he is at school, calm and happy, confident.

I begin to understand why he'd want to get away from home.

The one saving grace of the day arrives just after lunch, in the form of Jonah, Alicia and Mary. Alicia seats herself between me and Prim, smiling at me sympathetically and finally getting Prim talking again. Jonah coaxes Mike out of his room, so there is one more buffer between Mrs. Mellark and me.

She keeps trying to catch my eye, throwing me a tight, squinty-eyed smile whenever she succeeds, and it has unnerved me to the point where I'm ready to use those return train tickets tomorrow. Hell, I'd use them today if I could.

The only bad part about the family's arrival is that it's now time to open the presents.

We're all ushered into the family room. "You're free to join us too, girls," Mrs. Mellark sings out. "We wouldn't want you to feel left out." My face pulses and burns, and Peeta grabs my hand and squeezes, but still says nothing. The house phone rings at that moment, and I'm saved from making any kind of answer, instead having to listen to the false-cheer of Peeta's mom greeting some hapless caller, her voice echoing through the house. "Why, hello dear! No, not at all. Nonsense, we'd love to see you..."

"Who's Mom inviting over?" Mike mumbles as he slouches by us. He's a different person, today; hunched and sullen, where yesterday he was wry and outspoken.

"No idea," Peeta sighs, leaning against a wall and folding his arms, his voice almost a whisper.

They all do that around her, I realize. Whisper. Like they're sneaking around in their own home, afraid to be overheard.

I try to stay as inconspicuous as possible in the family room; Prim and I sit cross-legged in a corner as the gift-opening commences, and thank god, it's as informal as it was yesterday. Everyone grabs a package at random and lets fly. Baby Mary soon tires of ripping paper and climbing into empty boxes and, leaving her dad to open her presents for her, toddles over to our corner and flings herself at Prim. My sister, a natural magnet for young children, scoops her up, and they giggle together as Alicia plunks herself onto the floor next to us.

"She likes you." Even Alicia is whispering.

"She seems to," Prim answers, smiling. She coos at the baby, babbling nonsense to her, and Mary claps her chubby hands.

"I understand you want to be a doctor, Prim?"

"Yes," she says, frowning at me. I shrug back at her.

Alicia laughs. "Oh, word travels in this family. My dad is a doctor," she explains. "I could share some stories with you, trust me."

Prim relaxes, but across the room, I see Mrs. Mellark's head perk up, her eyes zeroing in on us. _Uh-oh_.

"What kind of a doctor do you want to be?"

"Well..." Prim's eyes slide off to the side, her mouth quirking up into a smile I've seen many times. Defiant and determined. I sit up a bit straighter. "An OB. I...want to deliver babies."

Alicia smiles. "Oh, how wonderful!"

"You'd be great at that, Prim," Peeta says, smiling at her and fiddling with the strap of a new watch. "I can't think of anything more perfect, for you."

She blushes, and I swell a bit with pride in her. "Thanks..."

"A doctor? Bless your heart." Mrs. Mellark's voice cuts through the general din, and everyone's face falls simultaneously. Her eyes are still zeroed in on us. "You know, dear, that involves such an awful lot of schooling."

A beat passes, and Prim replies, "Oh yes, ma'am. I know that, I don't mind. I'm actually looking forward to it. I'm...good at school. And I like it." She shrugs, but she's lifted her chin the tiniest bit.

"Better than I am, anyway." I throw an arm around her, so proud of her simple confidence I want to burst, and wishing I had an ounce of it myself.

Peeta opens his mouth to chime in, but his mother beats him to it, her eyes a bit colder now. "College and medical school are quite an undertaking. And very _expensive_. I wonder if you realize just how much debt-"

"We plan to work our way through," I say, my arm tightening around Prim. My voice is hard and cold and I almost don't recognize it, and I don't know where this courage is coming from, but I can't let this go without answering her silent question. "The same as we're doing right now." I sit up straighter and look her in the eye; her smile has gone from easy to brittle. "And if we end up having to take out loans-"

"That is exactly none of your business, Mom." Peeta finishes for me. I don't know if that's quite what I was going to say, but I still cast a grateful glance over at him. He's frowning steadily at his mom. Mike is looking back and forth between his mother and I, his eyes wide but a tiny grin creeping through. Mr. Mellark has his head leaned back into the couch cushions, his eyes closed, his expression blank.

Peeta's mom stares at him, and I can't quite read her expression. Disbelief? Anger? Disappointment? I don't know. "Well, then," she finally says, moving to get up. "I'll just go check on the turkey." She clicks out of the room, and everyone sags a bit when she's gone.

"Katniss?"

It's Mike, from across the room. He's watching me, smiling, and I can't help but smile back. "Yeah?"

"I think I love you too."

This causes everyone to crack up, and the tension is broken. Peeta just closes his eyes and shakes his head, then gets up and moves over to the floor with us, taking Alicia's spot as she scoots over to talk with Prim. He pulls me in for a hug, whispering, "Sorry." I frown and pull away as he continues, "She can be a little...tactless." His eyes are roaming the wall behind me, and I can't get him to look at me.

"Okay..." I say. "But-"

"Turkey's ready, everyone!" Mrs. Mellark calls from the kitchen, and we all rise obediently, and I'm left with my questions. _Why is she so down on me? _Well, besides the obvious: she came home last night to find her son screwing around in his room with a girl she'd never met. Fair enough. _But why be so cold about it? _If she has something to say to me, I'd rather she say it out directly. _And what is with all the tension? _The Mellark men have been walking on eggshells all day, and no one but Peeta knows what went on last night. There's definitely more going on here than I'm privy to, and I need someone to fill me in soon. And that someone should be...

Peeta is running a hand through his hair, eyeing the kitchen doorway like he's considering his best angle of attack. He frowns again as his mother reappears; I swear, I haven't seen an expression quite like that from him...well, ever. Sad, angry...defeated.

She lets her eyes sweep over all of us, before settling on the one person she should let well alone. My sister.

Her eyes rake Prim up and down, and my face flushes again as I realize what she's seeing. She's seeing pants that were once nice, but are now ragged around the cuffs and slightly too short. A long-sleeved tee shirt that's so faded from being handed down through two of us that it's got little pills of lint all over it and it's nearly worn bare under the arms. Socks with holes in the toes. My own outfit isn't much better.

The rest of the Mellarks are...not dressed up, exactly, but there is not a tattered garment among them like Prim's, nor a sock with holes, nor jeans that are ripped from wear like mine. I hadn't noticed before now.

Prim freezes while Mrs. Mellark looks her over.

Then Peeta's mom says, "Well. Obviously, we're not dressing for dinner any more, are we?" Followed by a chilling smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

Prim stiffens beside me, and I tighten my arm around her. "Excuse me?" My voice is louder than I'd intended. And I don't care.

She opens her mouth at me, frowning, ready to retort.

And that's when the doorbell rings.

Mrs. Mellark hurries off to answer it, heels clicking across the tile, and Prim turns her face into my shirt and whispers, "I wanna go home."

I nod and hug her tighter in the silence that follows, as Mrs. Mellark greets whoever is at the door. "Why there you are, dear! Thank you for calling. Come right in."

I hear a murmured reply, and for just a moment, I want to warn whoever it is to just go away.

"No way..." Mike breathes from behind me, and quickly pushes by to stick his head out into the hallway. "She didn't." He catches sight of our visitor. "She did."

I glance over at Peeta, confused, only to find that his eyes and mouth are hanging open in shock. His face is drained of color. I fall back a step, actually concerned that he's about to pass out, as Jonah whispers, "Hey, Prim. Could you come help me in the kitchen for a minute?"

She follows him (more like she's hustled into the next room), and I move to take Peeta's hand. "Are you..."

Footsteps behind us. Mrs. Mellark is followed into the family room by easily the most gorgeous girl I've ever seen. She's about our age, and she's nervous, twisting her fingers together and smiling in a watery, uncertain way. She takes a few steps toward Peeta.

"Hi," she says. Then her eyes flick toward me, then down to our joined hands, and a frown creases her face; she looks back at him. "How...how have you...can we, um...?"

Mrs. Mellark is now leaning against the kitchen doorway, smirking, arms folded tightly across her chest.

Oh. _Oh._

Understanding floods me, just as Peeta regains the ability to speak. "Del," he squeaks out. "What. What are you...uh, doing here?"

Del (so that's her name...) glances over at me again, wetting her lips. "Can we talk for a minute? In, um..."

_In private_. I drop Peeta's hand and my fists ball at my sides. _Sure, you can go talk to my boyfriend in private. Sure. _This girl is not girl-next-door beautiful. She's not quirky-beautiful. She's not even Homecoming Queen beautiful.

She's Miss West Virginia beautiful.

She is, in fact, a mini version of Peeta's mom, although much kinder-looking. It's not her fault that her skin is like porcelain, that her hair is the color of candlelight. That she's built like a Barbie.

I think I'm going to throw up.

"Yes, why don't you two go talk. You must have a lot to catch up on." _Oh thanks, Mrs. Mellark. Thanks a ton. _"And I know you haven't had a chance to talk since Peeta left us so suddenly, last summer."

Peeta just stares at his mom. For about a minute. Then he shakes himself and, with a helpless look at me, gestures for Del to follow him into the entryway.

I hope, I truly hope that the look I'm giving him properly conveys the depth of my anger.

Mrs. Mellark gives me a long look, then turns her back and retreats into the kitchen.

I follow Peeta and Del on silent feet; they're by the front door, and her back is to me. Peeta catches my eye over her shoulder, widening his eyes and shaking his head rapidly.

This was not his idea, he's trying to tell me. Well, I have no doubt of that.

"I'm so sorry," Del is murmuring. "Your mom made it sound on the phone like...like it would be okay if I...I'm sorry." Her voice is soft and sweet.

"It's okay." Peeta runs a hand through his hair, giving me another pleading look. I cross my arms, pressing my lips together. "Just-"

"I didn't know you'd have company," she says. She steps back, looking up at the ceiling and giving a loud sniff. _ Yes. Perfect. Why don't you cry now_. "I just. This was a mistake." She looks back at him, and he shrugs, shaking his head slowly. Another loud sniff, and she turns to rummage through her bag.

She finds what she was looking for, and turns back to him, holding it out in her hand. "I wanted to give this back. I don't...I can't keep it."

It's a ring box.

Coldness floods me, and I want to turn and run. But I'm rooted to the spot, transfixed by that small box and all that it represents. Of course. They were together for so long. It makes sense.

Peeta's eyes are panicked, now, and he glances at me again, and what he sees drains his face of all remaining color. "Oh...no." He coughs a little, backing away from her. "You don't have to...I don't want...you can-" He's looking everywhere but at her.

"Please," she says. She's really crying now. I feel like crying, myself. "I just don't want to look at it any more." She shoves it into his hand, then wrenches the door open and slams it behind her. A moment later, a car's engine fires to life.

Peeta stares at the door, then at the ring in his hand. The engagement ring.

Then, at me.

I have no words.

I turn a tight about-face and stalk into the kitchen. I grab Prim by the elbow. I don't look at anyone else. "Would you come upstairs with me for a minute." It's not a question. She looks scared as we breeze past Peeta on our way back up the stairs. I close and lock our door, and sink down to my knees on the plush carpet.

I cannot be here any more. I can't have my sister here.

He was engaged.

We have to go home.

"Kat..." I look up at my sister. She kneels next to me, her brow knit with concern. "Why are you crying?" I hadn't realized I was. "What happened?"

A pounding at the door. "Katniss." Peeta. I bury my face in my hands. "Please. Open up. Please?"

Prim stands up and moves to unlock the door for him.

"No," I say. I stand, smoothing my hands over my shirt. I step over to the door myself, unlock it and slip out into the hallway, closing it behind me.

His hands go immediately to my arms, but I shrug him away. "You were engaged."

I finally look up; he's got his lips pressed together, a pained expression twisting his face. "Yeah."

"Until you left in August, to come to school." Again, it's not a question.

"Yeah."

I take a deep breath. "And...you didn't think that was something you maybe needed to mention to me? At some point?"

He lets out a shaky breath. "We broke up. Before I left. I just want to be clear about that."

"I believe you. But breaking up and breaking off an engagement are two very different things."

"It's not-" He cuts himself off, covers his mouth with his hand. "It wasn't-" He tries again. "It wasn't like that."

"It wasn't like...what?"

"It wasn't like..." He shakes his head. "Like this." He looks straight at me, and I know just what he means. Us. Whatever they had, it wasn't like what we have. "I asked her when...we were both really young. Too young. And it wouldn't have been good for either of us. But I didn't realize that until way later."

"Okay. Well." I take a deep breath. "Did you love her?"

"...No."

"Does she still love you?" My voice is trembling, and I hate myself for it.

"I...I don't...I didn't think so."

"You didn't think so." The anger rises and bubbles up out of me. This is such a foriegn feeling; it's not supposed to be this way, with him, but this house and these people and this world are just so different, and she was so, so beautiful and sweet, and I just can't compete. "Obviously you thought wrong."

He's frowning. "Hey, look. We broke up." He paces a few steps back, runs his hand through his hair again. "I wasn't aware we had to share every detail of everything that happened before we even met."

I stare at him. I feel like I don't know him, not at all. "_Just the one detail would have been nice_." I'm shouting and I don't care. I whirl and slam the door behind me and I don't care. I'm being unreasonable. And I don't care.

"Kat?" I hate hearing my sister sound so small, and scared. I hate that I brought her into this, and that I was so, so stupid. Stupid enough to think that it could all be this easy. That I could just have this. Love. Family.

"We're going home tomorrow, Ducky."

"...Okay."

...

DECEMBER 26

_Kat, please. Please. I know you're getting these texts. We don't have to talk about anything, but it's been all day, and I at least want to know that you guys got home okay._

WE'RE HOME.

_Good. Listen, I want to_

I DON'T WANT TO TALK. LONG DAY. TOMORROW?

_Okay. Good night. I love you._

DECEMBER 27

_Hey. It's been a while, so...call me. Okay?_

STILL DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT

_I miss you._

MISS YOU TOO. I WISH

_What?_

I WISH YOU WERE HERE.

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry about my mom, that she caught you and that she was so cold to you. I'm so angry at her for telling Delly to come over._

NOT YOUR FAULT. I JUST WISH I HAD NEVER GONE.

_Shit. I wish I was there right now. I wish I could hold you right now._

JUST...I WANT TO GO TO BED.

_I love you._

DECEMBER 28

_Hello?_

_You're starting to worry me..._

"Hi."

He sighs loudly. "Hey. Thank you for picking up, finally..."

"Don't thank me. I should have answered earlier, but..."

"God, I miss you so much."

I smile down into my lap, then draw my knees up to my chest and settle back against my pillows. "I miss you."

"I love you, you know."

"I know. I love you too."

"Listen. I am so, so sorry about-"

"Peeta." I take a deep breath. "It's okay. You don't have to explain anything."

"No. I do. Would you please just listen?"

"...Yes."

"First. Delly. God, I am so...I'm sorry she came over. That's the last thing I would have wanted. I know that sucked for you, and you didn't expect it."

"Well...you guys were together for a long time. And it's not like you're never going to talk to her again." This is what two days of thinking gets me: the realization that I totally overreacted. "I mean, yeah, it was kind of tacky to give you back that ring right in front of me. But..."

"My mom put her up to it," he spits. I've never heard this tone of voice from him. "Made it sound like I really needed it back. Convinced her to come over that day."

"...Why?"

"Just to fuck with me. And you." There's that tone again.

"Um." I pause to gulp, and digest this information. "Why...does she hate me so much?"

He barks out a small mirthless laugh. "It's not just you, so don't feel bad. She gets testy when things don't go her way."

"She doesn't want me with you?"

"She...was really, really upset when Del and I broke it off. Like, more upset than we were."

"Wow."

"I...grew up with Del. In some ways, she was more like my sister. Our parents know each other from way back. It was-"

"-What everyone expected?"

"Bingo."

A smile steals onto my face. "You know that just makes me want to be with you even more. I love proving people wrong and pissing people off."

He chuckles. "Bonus points for me. I like it."

I pick at my bedsheets. "So is that why you came to school in Maine?"

"Is what why?"

"To, um...to get away. From Delly. And..."

"Well." He clears his throat. "In a way. Yeah. I actually didn't tell anyone I was going there until a few weeks before I left. I just felt like I needed a clean break. You know? And I didn't want anyone to try to talk me out of it. So I kind of just...went."

"Yeah." I frown; there has to be more to it than that. I want to push him about it, but not now. Not when we're talking, when my courage is finally up. We can deal with the rest of my unease, the creeping feeling of doom that I just can't shake, when he comes back up here in a few weeks.

Not healthy, but really. Neither am I. So this time, I'm going to be the one to steer the conversation away.

I hear a familiar creak, and a rustling on his end, like he's settling down against his pillows, too. "Are you in bed?"

"Yeah." I can hear him grinning. "Are you?"

"Oh, no." I recognize that tone of voice. "Don't even think about it."

"Why not? We've never done it over the phone before. Could be really fun..."

"No way. All I need is for your mom to walk in on that. She hates me enough already."

"I thought you liked that she hated you?"

"Yeah, but..." I shrug, looking around my room and pawing at the pillow I've pulled into my lap. I lower my nose, and it still smells like him, enough to send a warm pulse through me. He's tempting me, badly. "I kind of want to..."

"Yeah?" He sounds all too eager.

"I kind of want to...save it. You know. For when I see you again." It comes out in a mumble.

He's quiet for so long that I'm not sure if he heard me. "That is incredibly hot," he breathes.

"Thanks," I laugh. "I try." Even now, I don't get it. I don't understand why he finds me so attractive and fascinating. I still don't see it. And I don't come close to understanding how he does...what he does to me. What he's doing to me right now, even from hundreds of miles away.

Why just the smell of him lingering on my pillow can make me...

"Hey...what are you wearing?" His voice is low and rumbly. I think of what it's like to listen to it through his chest, to listen to him moaning when he can't form words any more...

"Would you _stop_?" I'm saying it as much for me as for him.

"Okay, okay, um..."

The conversation drifts to safer topics, and it ends as all of our best dates end: with the two of us channel-surfing together at 3AM.

...

Ah, the Undersees' New Years bash.

It's another great Munjoy Hill tradition.

Madge's parents moved to our neighborhood when we were both in kindergarten, not for lack of funds to live anywhere nicer (which was the reason most people lived in our neighborhood), but because they enjoyed the 'authentic atmosphere' of the place.

So do I, if by 'atmosphere' you mean 'drunks hanging out on the back porch, collapsing fire escapes, and kids with no shoes playing kickball in the street.'

The Undersees were both 40 when Madge was born, and are now retired, with a garden out back, a few published novels each, and a small trust fund for my friend.

We never talk about money. I know their door is always open to me, and I have never once taken them up on it. They know my life as well as I know theirs, but it's not up for discussion in either direction. An odd friendship, but there you have it.

I approach the old neighborhood cautiously, stepping off of the bus early in the evening, and battling a freezing head wind straight from the ocean, all the way to my friend's door. I refuse to turn my head and look down the street at my old house. I know it will seem smaller, now.

Madge wrenches the door open and pulls me into a hug before I can even open my mouth. "Ohmygod! Kat! I am so glad you came."

I step back, swiping at my hair, suddenly very conscious that I took no care in dressing tonight. Jeans and a sweatshirt, while Madge is in a form-fitting black sweater dress and heels. But she doesn't care. She pulls her lips to one side in a knowing smirk, asking, "Where's loverboy?"

"He's halfway across the country," I deadpan, before grinning at her.

She cackles. "Someone sounds frustrated."

"Very."

"Well...let's get you a drink." She pulls me off to the kitchen, starts mixing ingredients in a tall glass.

I frown, chewing on my lip as she holds the glass out toward me. I really shouldn't. But...

"Kat. It's New Year's Eve. These are mimosas. I order you to have one."

I smirk, reaching for the glass. "Well, if you order me. I have no choice."

Mistake #1.

...

20 minutes later, Annie and Finn show up to make the party bearable. Finn immediately starts flirting shamelessly (and harmlessly, I've learned) with everyone present, including Madge, who brushes him aside on her way back to the kitchen.

Annie drops onto the couch beside me, smiling faintly and fumbling at her hair, which might once have been upswept elegantly but is now half-down, loose strands clinging to the back of her neck. "Heard you were back early," she murmurs, hugging me quickly and then sitting back.

"Having a rough night?" I ask.

She shrugs. "We went to a bar earlier. Not really my thing."

"Yeah...me neither." We smile, one introvert to another, and then lapse into silence. Finally I try, "So what classes are you taking next semester? Maybe you and Peeta will-"

"I'm not." She grips the couch cushion. "I'm not going back to school."

"Annie." I can only stare at her. "Why not?"

"My, um..." She begins picking at her cuticles, looking everywhere but at me. "My parents are separating. My dad is...not supporting me at school any more."

"Oh my god, Ann..." I put an arm around her. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

"So...what are you going to do?"

"Figure it out. Somehow." She smiles faintly, again, watching Finn spin one of Madge's work friends to the music. "So where's Peeta? I thought you guys were planning New Years together."

I blink a few times at the abrupt change of subject. "He's...still home."

She just raises her eyebrows at me.

"His mom hates me. I left...kind of abruptly."

"Oh."

I actually haven't heard from him all day.

I drain the last of my second mimosa and pull my phone out of my pocket.

Still nothing.

I write a text.

ENDED UP GOING TO MADGE'S PARTY. HAVING A CRAP TIME. CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THIS, OK?

I hit 'send.'

Mistake #2.

...

I get up from the couch a few minutes later, and the room lurches around me and I have to grab someone's arm to keep from falling over.

That someone turns out to be Finn. "Whoa, nelly," he cries, pulling me close against him. "I know I'm irresistable and everything, but try to restrain yourself, Everdeen."

Stupid champagne.

I push him away and shuffle my way to the kitchen; Madge is there at the sink, filling ice cube trays. "Hey, look at you!" she says, holding her arms out, and I stumble into her for a clumsy hug. She holds me at arms' length, frowning. "Oh sweetie...you drank that second one too fast."

"Did not."

"Okay, you're cut off..."

"Am not." I lurch over to the fridge and grab a beer off of the top shelf. I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. But I can't think of any good reason not to, right now.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and nearly drop it when I try to slide the Unlock button. Still nothing.

Madge frowns as I pop the top off my beer and take a sip.

"Are you sure that's a good..."

"Yep."

"What, um...what happened down there, anyway? With Peeta's folks?"

"Jesus." I roll my eyes. "Am I not allowed to be without him any more?"

"Weren't you guys supposed to..."

"Oh my god." I lean against the counter, pressing the cold beer against my sudden headache.

She holds her hands up. "Okay. I'll leave it alone. Just...he seems like a really great guy."

"He is."

"And he's really into you. And if his family doesn't..." She shakes her head. "Oh, hell. Don't listen to me. I'm here alone, too."

Our eyes meet and, for the first time in months, a look of understanding, of camaraderie, passes between us. I miss this. I nod, smiling, and she shakes her head, moving off. "Just don't finish that beer, Kat. That's all I'm saying."

I roll my eyes behind her back, taking an extra-large swig from the bottle in my hand before bringing it back up to rest against my forehead, and turn as the back door creaks open.

And here comes Mistake #3, stumbling through the doorway like he's already had a few, his arm around the shoulders of the leggy blonde I recognize from my seminar. I can't fight a smile as my eyes flick from Gale to his date. I can't even feel panicked or upset that he's here.

I can't seem to feel much of anything.

"Hey," he says to his date. "I'll meet you inside."

She nods, giggling, and brushes past me on her way to the living room.

"Gale. Hi." My voice is too loud, too monotone.

I could be in trouble here. A tiny, rational part of my mind is screaming at me to turn around, walk away. _Turn around, walk away_. I don't listen.

"Kat." He frowns. "You been drinking?"

"So?"

He shrugs. Smiles. "So nothing." He leans up against the counter, about a foot away from me. I edge a few more inches away. "Seems like I haven't seen you in forever."

"You haven't." Still too loud. I take a deep breath and clutch the bottle hard. My hands are shaking a little, but I still can't really feel it.

"Guess that's my own fault," he mumbles at the floor. "I've been wanting to talk to you. And this might not be the best time. But I just...want to say I'm sorry."

"Huh?"

"I haven't been the best friend to you. In the past."

I look up with narrowed eyes. That's certainly an understatement.

"I...look, I..." He rubs his hand across his closed eyes. I try to muster up some sympathy, but I just can't. "You never felt for me what I felt for you. And I tried to...and I'm sorry. You needed me as a friend and I failed you."

My jaw is slack, and I can't think of any words.

"Seeing you these past few months, with Peet, and off on your own at school...I don't know. It just hit me. You seem...happy. You never acted that way before." He pauses, and I can feel him looking at me but I can't meet his eyes. "So are you? Happy?" His voice is gentler than I remember it being.

"Yeah, I...I really am." I find myself smiling, and he's right; the expression no longer feels foreign. "I'm not saying there aren't problems, but, yeah. I'm happy."

It may be the first time I've ever said that out loud. It may be the first time I've felt it, at least since that day my family took the photograph on my dad's boat. Because that is the last time I remember feeling this...lighthearted. Optimistic. Calm.

Because I am thinking about one person. Peeta.

I am heartsick with missing him, heartsore with loving him. God. Yes. I wish I hadn't left him. I wish I'd let him explain, let him talk me into staying. And I'm so wrapped up in my own head that I don't notice Gale sliding closer to me along the counter, leaning down for what might be just a friendly hug.

"Hey," he says, "I'm glad that you're-"

And that's when I look up. I hadn't realized that he was leaning so close. Our faces are inches apart. My head is swimming. I snap back to myself. _What was I-_

Our lips are close, too close, I can feel Gale's breath on my chin and I should pull away, but this is all too familiar, too comfortable, he's trying to kiss my cheek but I turn my head, almost a reflex, to turn away. In confusion I turn the wrong way and he catches my lips instead.

It's brief and terrible, the kiss, and I jerk back from Gale with wide eyes, and he looks just as confused as I must look.

The back door creaks again, and I crane my neck to look around Gale. To see who's coming in the door now.

It's Peeta.

Suddenly, inexplicably, he's here, at Madge's house. I blink rapidly and shake my head, but he's still there, somehow, staring at the two of us. His face is expressionless. He's taking in the scene, trying to process what went on moments ago.

I open my mouth but can only squeak, my lips moving uselessly.

Peeta turns and quickly walks out.

...

**A/N the 2nd**

**IN MY DEFENSE: Come on, guys. This is *Everlark.* You knew it couldn't possibly be that easy.**


	12. Grace is Gone

**A/N Fandom! This was delayed, and on a hell of a cliffhanger too, for which I apologize. I have a lot of intense real-world shite happening at the moment, which unfortunately will not be letting up. The angst continues, but...look! Look! *Points to first section below* See? Sexytimes! Who loves ya? JW does.**

**Two more chapters to go after this.**

**You all will, of course, recognize certain lines and themes from the works of one Suzanne Collins. (/standard disclaimer)**

Chap 12: Grace is Gone

_So make your siren's call, and sing all you want; I will not hear what you have to say. _-Mumford and Sons, _The Cave_

In my dream, Peeta is with me.

It's about the first week of December, I think, and there's a heavy snowfall swirling and howling outside my apartment, tiny dry flakes driven by a biting wind. But it's Friday, and neither one of us has class until after lunch, and from the look of things outside, they'll probably be canceled anyway.

I'm curled up on my left side, the blankets pulled up under my chin, and Peeta is wrapped around behind me. We're both deliciously naked, and as has become our custom, we're hopelessly tangled up in one another as I come awake: his face is buried in my hair and my fingers are twined together around his forearm as it drapes over my waist. His right leg, the good one, is thrown over both of mine, his toes flexing and cracking against the top of my foot as he comes awake.

A long sigh drags heavy and warm against my ear, and he shifts against me, pulling at the blanket so I'm suddenly exposed from the waist up. "Cold," I mumble, whining a little, my nipples pulling to hard points in the frigid air.

"Sorry," he slurs back. He pulls the blanket back up to my chin; I sigh and melt back into our warm nest. His knuckles graze the side of my breast, pausing to drag his thumb across the hard nipple before coming to rest around my waist again. His fingers dangle further, dancing against the border of the silky hair below.

I smile and snuggle more firmly against him. "What are you doing?" My eyes are still closed, my pulse thrumming.

"Um...nothing." His fingers dip lower, into the curly hair, grazing the sensitive flesh beneath, and my breath catches as his mouth latches onto that one spot just beneath my ear. He sucks gently.

My arm snakes up, my fingers tangling into his hair, pulling him closer. "Doesn't feel like nothing..." I arch back against him, just enough to prove my point; he's incredibly hard and smooth against my back, and I sigh through a rush of warmth as his fingers dip down through my folds, just once, just enough to tantalize but not satisfy.

He chuckles against the back of my neck and replies in an incoherent mumble, teeth grazing my shoulder as he withdraws his hand from my front and instead begins touching me from behind, stroking his whole hand over me until my eyes roll back.

He draws his hand back and settles his body against my back, and I feel the tip of him, just grazing my wetness, parting me and rubbing against my clit...I move against him and..."Oh god," he moans. "Can we-"

"God. Yes."

He rolls away from me, grappling at the nightstand and wrestling the third and last condom from a pack of three out of its package. He rolls it on in record time; it would be humorous if I weren't writhing over here, gripping my pillow, eyes squeezed shut, begging him with my mind to _hurry_.

He does. He's back on me in seconds, and I moan as he latches onto my pulse point with his lips, his hand cupping my breast as he settles behind me and between my legs, nudging them apart with his knee, and pushes forward just a little. Just enough.

Just enough to pull a frustrated whine from me. I square my hips and push back against him, and he slides all the way into me with a groan. I throw my head back, my mouth opening silently, and his teeth nip at the underside of my jaw.

"Can you..." His voice is a hoarse whisper. "Will you...touch yourself?"

I worry my bottom lip. He's asked for this a few times, now, and I really can't see the appeal. For him, I mean. In the past I've been too embarrassed and self-conscious and I haven't been able to do it. But now...maybe it's easier because I'm not looking directly at him. I don't know. Today, I say, "Yeah. Okay..."

He moans softly and I nudge back against his chin with mine; he grips me tighter and begins easing himself in and out, slowly, as my hand drifts down and begins the familiar motion. Immediately I feel myself tighten.

His response is immediate. His thrusts intensify, and his lips are at my ear. "Oh," he breathes. "That is so...so..."

Abruptly he rolls over so that I'm underneath him, my own hand pinned beneath me. I tilt my hips so I'm still able to maneuver. My legs are splayed awkwardly, my right hitched up and my left straight out behind me, and I turn my head so my face isn't buried in the pillow. With a grunt Peeta buries himself in me again, and I draw a sharp breath at the deep stab of pain.

We've never tried this position before, and obviously something about this angle is causing him to hit me too deep. He thrusts again and I have to speak up. "Wait, ow ow ow."

He backs up immediately, leaning off to the side and raising a hand to stroke my hair. "That hurt?"

I nod. "Yeah...a little."

He kisses the side of my face, then my lips. "I'm sorry." His face is all frowning concern, and my chest aches with tenderness for him. "Do you want to stop?"

I bite my lip again. Do I? On the one hand, we will have to be mighty careful if we continue this way.

On the other hand...damn. I should have started touching myself during sex sooner. The small taste of it that I got...damn.

"No," I say. "Just, maybe we need to go slower. In this position."

A slow smile spreads over his face, and he kisses me again. "We can do that," he says against my lips, and kisses me a few more languid times before working his way behind me again. "Will you keep on touching yourself like that?"

I grin and stretch out beneath him, cat-like, and rub myself in slow circles as he eases into me again. "Oh. Shit..." Some instinct makes me tilt my hips back against him, spread my legs a bit further apart. He sweeps my hair to the side and latches onto my neck again; one hand closes onto my shoulder, and he pulls me down gently as he slowly thrusts up.

I feel all tingly lightning, coming at me from two sides, without and within. This slower pace allows me to feel exactly what he is touching at this angle; his head rubs against something inside me, against my front wall, that makes me want to sing. My hand moves faster. We move faster. I feel myself slicken against him, soaking myself, easing away whatever discomfort there was before. My free hand steals up and braces against the wall, helping me to push back against him, to reach that spot inside more easily. His free hand closes loosely around my jaw, fingers close to my lips, and I clamp my teeth around his knuckles, making him hiss.

We've forgotten slow and gentle. I don't know what kind of sounds I'm making, but my throat is sore. My fingernails dig into the wall plaster and my body sings with lightning, jerking each time he rears back and pushes into me. I feel it building; he roars and growls and I don't know what else as his own climax builds.

"Oh god, I love you," I hear, at the moment when we both explode, crying out and sweating and pushing against each other one, two, three more times before-

-Before I come awake with a gasp, my fists bunched in the sheets, breathless and sweaty and utterly alone, heart pounding and blood rushing in my ears. I remember exactly what I felt, and I feel its loss with every inch of my body.

I clutch my pillow against me and try vainly to recapture whatever it was.

It's a snowy Friday morning, again, but this time it's heavy, wet late-January snow, and this time, I'm alone.

...

I've landed B.T. again this semester, for Intro to Calc. We meet Tuesday and Friday at 11, and the first Friday of classes I slip along the icy walks early enough that there is no way that I'll be late.

I see Peeta as soon as I open the classroom door. _Goddamnit. _The first time I lay eyes on him since our...fight...would have to be in class. He's sitting a few seats forward from our customary table, but I know he's seen me from the way he twists back around in his seat and busily starts writing in his notebook.

I'm rooted to the spot for a few moments, shaking, the blood draining from my face. _Look at me. Turn around. _He's pale and serious, but otherwise unchanged. Of course he is. It's only been a few weeks. It only feels like years. I recognize his red Harvard sweatshirt; his brother Mike got it for him as a joke a few years ago, and he's worn the hell out of it ever since. The last time I saw it, it was bunched into a knot half-underneath my bed. He threw it there because he doesn't wear a shirt when he sleeps.

I suspected he might be in my section again, and I've been dreading this day for that reason. But a small part of me is relieved, happy to see him again. I hate that part because it's useless, now.

I steer my feet toward the back of the classroom, grabbing the first empty table I see, and it remains empty save for me. Peeta gains a seatmate immediately, of course, but he doesn't talk to her. I try not to watch her attempt to engage him in conversation as we wait for B.T. to make an appearance, and I look away when he gives her one-word answers, unsmiling.

Halfway through the lecture, my studious attention to B.T. is interrupted by the sight of Peeta pulling his phone out under the table. My heart clenches and I grip my pen until my knuckles ache. I stopped trying to call and text him weeks ago. I wonder if he still looks for my messages.

Pathetic. I'm pathetic.

I force myself not to look at him. My eyes flick between the white board and my note paper. These may be the best notes I've ever taken. I'm studious and attentive. I am absolutely not using my peripheral vision to watch the back of his head, and note that his curls are getting shaggy. He could use a haircut.

_Stop it_.

Class ends, and I'm already packed up. I shoot out of my seat and disappear through the classroom's back door, walk a brisk roundabout course through the hallways and let myself out the service entrance. I back up against the freezing wall in the alleyway, breathing hard, hot tears freezing in the corners of my eyes. It's the cruelest, coldest part of January, and if I cry now, it'll freeze to my face and dry out my skin and itch terribly.

Luckily, crying doesn't seem to be something I do, any more.

I sniff noisily and start walking, faster than necessary, to warm up. I have plenty of time to go back home and open a can of soup before my next class. Or not. I have one more class this afternoon, also in Portland, and then a shift at the market (I asked them to just schedule me any time Gale wasn't scheduled). Then a lone dinner. Or not. Then sleep.

Or not.

This is stupid. It's stupid that I will thrash in bed all weekend because we have one class together. On Tuesday, I will force myself to talk to him. He won't answer my calls, fine. I'll just go up to him. It might not be pretty, but at least it will be easier than sneaking in and out of class to avoid confrontation all semester. I need this class, and I need to do well in it.

I will talk to him Tuesday. I have no idea what the fuck I will say. But I will go to class super early and I will make myself talk to him.

But he's not in class on Tuesday. The thrashing in bed continues until the following Friday, but he's not there that day either. The next class rolls around and he's a no-show, and that's when I understand.

He dropped the class.

I really am alone.

...

In my dream, it's New Year's Eve at Madge's party again. It's one of those nightmares where you're watching yourself from outside, and you're screaming at yourself to do it differently, do it better, _fix this_. But it's not even a nightmare; it's a memory. I remember it painfully accurately, and my brain treats me to a re-run fairly often.

"Wait. Wait!"

Peeta turns around, silent. His face is blank, his false foot sliding in the frozen snow. "Yeah?"

"That..." I gesture behind me, my hand flapping. Trying to encompass it all in one lame gesture. "That...wasn't what it looked like."

"Really." He's staring me down, eyes cold, and it makes me shiver. It's like we're strangers. "Because it looked an awful lot like you were kissing Gale."

I open my mouth but I can't speak. My lips open and close, but I'm mute, and in my head I'm screaming. My stomach is lead. My throat is on fire.

"What? Is that not what I saw?" He barks out a short laugh, but there is no humor in it. "I, um...I bought my brother's car. Spent my book money. Pissed my mom off to no end." He laughs again, a cruel, blighted version of his real laugh. "Took me all day to drive up here. Wanted to...surprise you." He's staring at me, and his eyes that used to be so warm and loving and a window to everything he is to me are now cold, and I want to die.

Really, to die.

"Clearly, I did."

He turns and he gets into his brother's piece of shit car (his piece of shit car, now), and it takes a few tries, but the engine finally turns over. I watch his face through the windshield and his expression doesn't change. I don't go after him because I can't move my legs; they've grown roots down into the frozen earth, and now I'm stuck here.

He drives away from that house and away from me.

It's very cold out here, the wind off of the ocean biting straight through my clothing to my skin, but I don't move.

_Fix this_? There's no way to fix this. I fucked myself.

...

I only have to ride the shuttle to Gorham for one class, this semester, and I'm not really nervous about seeing Peeta, because he doesn't have to ride the shuttle any more. Neither do any of our friends, because being the guy that he is, naturally Peeta would offer a ride to anyone who needed one. So I sit by myself on the way to Modern Poetry for the Musician every Monday and Wednesday afternoon, and I plug my earbuds into my phone and listen to the same five songs over and over on repeat, just so I won't have to talk to anyone.

It's a stupid class, and I'm horrible at writing, and even worse at understanding poetry. Maybe I don't want to understand. Maybe I want to fail this.

I listen to the same songs on the ride back home; it's just long enough to get through all five, depending on traffic. _The Cave. Mardy Bum. Where is My Mind. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. Let Me Touch You For a While. _My five little personal gut punches. I don't know why I do it. Maybe I deserve it, maybe I deserve to feel it, every bit of it. Over and over.

...

I've been working a lot. It's something I didn't do at all last semester, and I find the routine is soothing now. They've given me all night shifts, Sunday through Thursday until closing, and I'm making decent enough money that I haven't had to dip into the bank account for books or rent so far. I don't see Gale, because I asked them not to schedule me with him. No exceptions.

Prim is playing spring soccer this semester, for which indoor practice has already begun, so I don't even see her until Saturday around noon. Friday nights are all mine.

"Hey," she says one Sunday morning, frowning at me as I nurse a cup of coffee and turn some pages in my Accounting text, pretending to read. It's early February, and it's frigid and gray outside our windows. "Eat something for breakfast once in a while, will you?" She shuts the cabinet and tosses a foil Pop Tart package onto the table beside me. "I'm losing weight just looking at you."

My stomach turns, and I have to look away. It's a cinnamon one. That smell makes me want to vomit.

"You should be thanking me, then."

"Nope. I've gotta build up some muscle. They want me to play Sweep. Have you talked to-"

"No." _Shut that down. Fast_.

"Kat." She pulls out a chair, plunks herself down and tears into her own foil package, pulling the sugary pastry apart and eating it raw. Even uncooked, the smell makes my nose wrinkle. "What the hell? First we storm out of there at Christmas. Now you don't see him and he won't answer my texts-"

"You've been texting him?"

She stares at me. "Well, _you_ wouldn't talk to me..." She trails off, her eyes drifting down to my hands, and I realize I'm gripping a page of my textbook hard enough to wrinkle it in my fist. I let the paper go, and look up to meet her eyes. "You really can't tell me what happened?"

I sigh. "It's...no. I can't." _I'm ashamed of what you'll think of me. I'm a coward_.

"Does it..." She chews slowly, frowning down at the table. "Does it have to do with Gale?"

My mouth drops open; my chest goes hollow. "You...you. You knew about Gale?"

She raises an eyebrow, and the glare she gives me makes her look so much like our mother before the drugs that I feel a jolt to my insides, half-nostalgia, half-horror. "Kat...yeah, I knew." She shifts in her chair; her hand shoots out and covers one of mine. "Of course I knew."

My baby sister. She knew all the time. Knew I was sleeping with him.

"He's not a subtle guy, Kat. He's actually...kind of a jerk." She shakes her head again, biting her lip. "Sorry. I always just wondered why you didn't see that."

Those hot tears prick at my eyes again, the ones that never fall. "Because I'm an idiot." I'm amazed at how bitter I sound. "Because I'm blind." I throw my hands up, by way of explanation. "Because I'm a jerk too."

She's shaking her head, though. "You are the farthest thing from an idiot or a jerk I've ever seen. Just...do me a favor?"

I shrug my shoulders at her. Why not?

She takes a deep breath. "If you decide to finally leave him behind...just...leave him behind. For good." She squeezes my hand again. "Okay?"

She gets up to answer her phone a minute later, and I'm left wondering whether she meant Gale or Peeta. And if it matters.

...

I'm stocking soup in aisle 5 one Thursday night around ten, when I hear his voice in aisle 6 and freeze.

"I told you, man. I'm not going."

Peeta. My fingers close around a Campbell's label.

I hear the clicking of his leg, the one that always drags behind a little.

"Come on. How long are you gonna pull this old-sad-bastard crap?" It's Mitch. I haven't seen either him or Diana since before break, but of course Peeta is still hanging out with them.

He probably doesn't even know I work here.

"I'm not. I'm just not in the mood." His voice sounds hoarse, and the tone is all wrong for him: clipped, impatient. "What kind of chips?" The chips are stocked directly on the other side of this shelf; I could be looking right at him.

I nearly drop the pricing-gun, but manage to grab it in time.

"These. They're cheap." I hear a rustling overhead, and look up in time to see the edge of a white bag disappear from the stacks on the top shelf. They are directly opposite me; move these shelves and we'd have to face each other.

What would I even say?

"Cool. Can we go now?" There's that tone again.

"Whoa. What about beer? You want?"

"No. Just, whatever." I hear him clear his throat; I hear the click of his leg fading out toward the front of the store, and I nearly drop the can of soup in my haste to scurry noiselessly to the opposite end of the aisle. I catch sight of Mitch loping off toward the beer coolers, and I steady myself against a display of animal crackers. I'm shaking so hard I have to lower myself to the floor, forehead to my knees, and breathe until I'm back to what passes for normal.

He didn't sound good. He didn't sound like himself.

I gain my footing and a wave of nausea rolls through me; I barrel my way back past the meat counter and push through the emergency exit just in time to see the water and two saltine crackers that were my dinner ejected into the snow underneath the loading dock. I stare at the steaming pile, clinging to the metal railing, heaving up stomach acid, hot and trembling.

Then I go back inside, and I stare at the calendar in the break room for a full ten minutes. Silently counting the days.

There is no way. There is absolutely no way.

I tell the manager, Bess, that I have to go home for the night, and she doesn't argue with me.

...

That night is the coldest one we've had so far this winter, and in my dream, the sky is pink.

I'm sitting on a warm tropical beach in my underwear. Johanna is here, for some reason, wading in the softly-lapping waves about ten yards down the beach, glowering at me with arms crossed. Finn is cavorting in the water in front of me, also in his underwear, which would be distracting if Peeta were not also on this beach, also in his skivvies. He's frowning down at an elaborate map etched into a huge leaf as the sun sets behind him. Orange sun; pink sky.

I look around for the trees from his painting, but instead see only thick jungle foliage. Very suddenly, the dense, humid air is filled with the clicking of insects, almost like cicadas but infinitely more sinister. I have a feeling these insects, wherever they are, have a more carniverous bent.

"It's a wheel. A clock. The lightning comes at midnight," says a familiar voice behind me. I turn, and it's Professor B.T., lounging under a palm tree, a makeshift blood-soaked bandage fastened around his midsection. "And noon. But darkness is easier."

I remember the 'lightning' from my last dream, and blush hotly, looking down at my feet, not wanting to discuss _that_ with my professor. I frown; my skin is riddled with sores, my feet cracked and bleeding.

I turn slightly and there is Peeta, in front of me. Now he's wearing the ugly hospital tunic he wore for his CT scan, the one that opens in the front. He's smiling, eyes warm, and he's holding something out to me. I stretch out my hand and he drops a single pearl into the center of my palm. There's a bird etched onto it.

"You're going to make a great mother, you know," he says.

My fist closes over the pearl and I snap awake in my own bed, freezing because I've kicked the covers to the floor, the muggy tropical heat forgotten. I'm grasping the sheets between my fingers, knotting them into my palms.

I lever myself off of the bed and crouch, hands on my knees, until the dizziness passes. Then I stumble into the bathroom and wrestle the blue box out of the shopping bag I'd tossed next to the sink. I rip it open and fumble one of the strips out.

I flip on the light and curse at the stabbing eye-pain. I squint at the instructions and curse the tiny fucking writing. I hold the strip between my legs and I pee all over my hand and I curse again before I can finally do it right.

I wait the two minutes. Look. Control window: one line. Test window: one line. No plus sign.

I look back at the box, back at the test.

I take another one, just to be sure.

No plus sign.

I throw the used tests out, stow the remaining one under the bathroom sink and stumble back to bed, curling up on my side, curling in on myself, making my body a circle, a wheel. What is it, what am I feeling? Relief, certainly. The giddiness of alleviated worry. But also...

...disappointment?

I finally get my period, two days later.

...

It's a Wednesday in February when I see him again.

I'm on my way to my afternoon class in Portland, hurrying across the freezing parking lot when I catch sight of his bright hair and blue winter jacket coming out of the student center, in the middle of a knot of people. They're all talking among themselves, but he's hanging back, silent, frowning. He pauses to lean against the railing briefly; I see him draw a deep breath before he continues, jogging a bit to catch up to the group, his leg catching in the cracks of the pavement.

God, he looks so pale.

I become aware that I'm staring around the same time I lose sight of him in the crowd outside the cafeteria. I shake myself and turn away, and try to appear normal as I weave my way onto the quad and up the hill toward the math and science building.

I stop walking when I hear the screams.

I whirl and there's already a crowd gathering on the curb just beside the crosswalk, some of them crouched down and some hanging back, hands over their mouths, all blocking my view of whatever-or whoever-has gotten their attention. Several have pulled out their phones and are rapidly dialing what is probably emergency services.

I see that Mitch is one of the crouchers.

_No._

For a minute it's like one of my dreams where I can't move, where I can't help. The sound of the sirens in the distance finally snaps me to attention and I'm running, weaving through the thousand people who suddenly seem to be in my way. The ambulance pulls up when I'm still a good distance away, and I stop about halfway across the parking lot.

Maybe it's not him. Maybe-

There is blonde hair and a blue coat on the stretcher as it's loaded into the back of the van, and his face is slack, eyes closed. They're holding an oxygen mask over his face.

I fall to my knees, the cold and wet of the pavement soaking through my jeans.

_Not this. Not now_.

The ambulance pulls away, and I suddenly have no time, no time at all.

I scramble to my feet, turn in the general direction of the hospital, and I start running.

It's two miles and the sidewalks are slippery, and there's lots of traffic and I get honked at and sworn at. My shoes become soaked through after just a few blocks, and when I start up the steady rise which becomes steeper and steeper the closer you get to the hospital, my breath wheezes in and out of my lungs in painful pants, the cold of the air seeping into my skin. My nose starts running about halfway up the hill. I have no illusions that a taxi could have gotten me there faster.

I will stand for nothing less, right now, than getting there under my own power.

I reach the emergency entrance some unspecified time later, my breathing ragged, my body sweaty and shaking, no thought in my head except_ I've got to find him, I've got to find him_.

I stagger into Emergency and the first person I see is Diana, fidgeting in one of the plush chairs in the waiting room. I stalk up to her; she looks up at me, shocked. I must look really bad, because she jumps to her feet and grabs my hands immediately.

"Oh my god, are you okay?"

I throw her off, stepping back. "Where is he?" My voice is a low rasp.

"...Did you run all the way here?" Her eyes are wide.

I wave her off. "Yeah. Where is he? Is he okay? Is it..."

She shakes her head. "We don't know yet. They're doing blood tests and running scans. He passed out, right outside the student center. He..." She bites her lip, letting her eyes wander back to the patient area behind the intake desk, and it's all I can do to keep from running back there. Instead, I plop down next to her as she continues, "He hasn't been doing very well. Since break. I don't think he's eating much."

Peeta? My Peeta? Not _eating?_

I lean over and rest my head in my hands, and I don't move for a long time. I hear Di get up once or twice, to find the restroom, to get a drink from the vending machine. I don't move.

Finally: "Hey." I look up; it's Mitch. He's regarding me with a mixture of pity and annoyance.

Di sits up straighter beside me. "So?"

Mitch shrugs, glancing at her. "So, they're keeping him overnight." I clutch at the armrests of my chair, feeling a sob building in me and using all my strength to swallow it down as he continues, looking back at me. "It's not...it's not the cancer."

My entire body sags.

"He's anemic. I don't know. He hasn't been sleeping great, skipping meals. You know. It all got to be too much. Plus they had him on this new antibiotic for that lung infection-"

"Lung infection?" I echo.

"...Yeah. And it was really kicking his ass. So they're gonna try another one. But he should be fine, a day or two." He turns to Di. "I'm gonna go back, sit with him. You coming?"

He's pointedly not asking me, but I'm not going to let that stand. "Can...can I-"

"Sorry." And he really does look sorry, for all of his annoyance earlier. "He doesn't want to see you. We told him you were here, and he said..."

It's like a real, honest punch in my gut. I actually double over in the chair, shaking my head. I don't want to hear any more.

"I'll be right there," Di says, easing her arm around me. Mitch moves off, back through the double doors that lead to the exam rooms, and she leans into me. "Look. You don't have to tell me what happened, with you two. He's not saying anything to us. But...you should talk to him."

She squeezes my hand once. I say nothing, my eyes fixed on the floor. How do I tell her I've tried? That I don't deserve to try any more? That he's better off without me?

She offers to call me a cab, but I shake my head and walk out to the bus stop. I ride back to campus and walk to my apartment, wrap myself in the echoing silence and blink my burning dry eyes as darkness falls.

...

Annie says the same thing to me, the last time I see her.

She texts me that we need to talk, and this is rare enough to pique my curiosity. We meet at the Dunkin Donuts a few blocks from Finn's apartment, and huddle together over coffee. She's a little thinner, more ragged and frizzy-haired than when I saw her last.

She gazes out the window at the midday traffic as she says, "You should talk to him."

I snort. "I don't think that would do much good right now."

"Maybe not. But..." She looks back at me, and I notice that her chin is trembling. "He needs you."

I shake my head, and we fall into silence. I know she's probably seen Peeta since he got out of the hospital, but I find that I really don't want to hear about it secondhand. As long as I know he's...healthy. Relatively. My eyes wander to the window, but there's not much to see. Late February in Maine is really, really ugly, the trees bare, the sky leaden, the wind still cold and biting. The snow on the ground is starting to turn black from the grime and salt and sand. It's perfect, really.

"So...we're leaving." She comes out with this in such an offhand way that I don't really hear her the first time.

"Wait...what?"

"Me and Finn." Her eyes are wide, almost panic-stricken, but behind the alarm I read a spark of excitement. "We're leaving."

My mouth hangs open. "You're leaving. Where are you going?"

"California." A smile steals onto her face, and she leans down to sip her steaming coffee.

"You and Finn are going to California," I repeat, smiling myself. "That's...crazy." I shake my head at her. "And cool."

"I know," she says.

"When are you going?"

"Uh...two days."

I sag back in my chair. "Annie. Two days?" She nods, her smile fading a bit. "That's nuts. Do your...does everyone know?"

She shakes her head. "No one knows. It has to be now because..."

She trails off, frowning, but I don't need her to finish. I have a feeling it has to do with Finn's legal problems. I want to do the responsible thing, the sensible thing, and ask he if she's sure, remind her she hasn't known Finn for long, that she can find a way to go back to school. But instead: "I'll miss you," I say. It rolls over me, suddenly: she was the last friend in our group who was still talking to me. "You're...Annie, you're a good friend. If you ever need anything, a place to crash, whatever..."

My turn to trail off. Because she's gazing out the window again, absentminded.

Two days later, I trudge home after a day of classes to find a guitar case and a box about the size of an amp, outside my apartment door.

"Tell me you didn't, you asshole..." I open the case. "You did." It's Finn's beautiful guitar, just left out here in the hallway, for me. Unreturnable, now that he and Annie are gone.

There's even a note. _Kat-I couldn't in good conscience bring this with me. It's rightfully yours. -Finn_

_P.S. So is he. Whether he knows it or not._

...

I kind of give up sleeping, after that.

I manage a few hours a night, but honestly, the dreams are so intense now that I'm not sure how much good it's doing. I close my eyes and I see Peeta in a hospital bed, I see Gale's angry face, I see my dad in the cold water.

Or worse, I'm in a good place for that brief time. And then I wake up, my dry eyes stinging and burning.

I throw myself into my studies. Since time is no longer an object, I complete all the readings. Do all the problem sets. I work ahead. I'm prepared for every test. I'm making straight A's. I'm ridiculous.

I play the guitar. I trim my nails and print out sheet music. I sit on my couch and pick out the melodies I remember from years ago. It's amazing, how much comes back to me. Songs I thought were buried, songs I'd forgotten I knew. I sing to myself, to my empty apartment, humming along when I don't know the words. I'm still terrible, but this is another area where having unlimited time to myself can only help me.

I go to work at the market, completing the tasks mechanically, not really there.

After two weeks of that, I can't face another Friday night alone. Another Sunday where Prim disappears with Hamish and I'm left behind. I have no one left.

So I do the unthinkable: I call up Hamish.

"What are you doing this weekend?"

He belches, and I hold my phone away from my ear, wrinkling my nose. "Tonight? Getting drunk. Tomorrow?" He sighs deeply. "Same. Sunday? Going to see my baby sister." He chuckles. "Any of that sound good to you, sweetheart?"

An idea is forming in my lonely heart. A plan. "Yeah, sounds like a hoot. Mind if I head over tonight?"

Silence on the other end. Then: "...Sure. Sure, sweetheart. Come on over."

If Prim is surprised to see me when she gets back from practice that Friday night, she doesn't show it. She tells me all about how her soccer team is preparing for their first real game next weekend as we eat takeout subs, cross-legged on the TV room floor. She gives me an odd look as she heads off to bed, but still doesn't question why I'm there.

That first night, I clean the bathroom, and end up having to clean it again when Hamish vomits there shortly after midnight. I help him to bed, then finally crawl in next to Prim around 2AM. My childhood twin bed is still in this room, but tonight I need to be close to my sister; she shifts to accomodate me, throwing a skinny arm around my middle and cuddling against my back.

Saturday, I work on the kitchen while Prim does a little reading, then meets Rue for a movie downtown. Hamish wanders out of his room mid-afternoon, watches me scrub the countertops and disinfect the fridge for a while, then grabs a beer and heads back to bed.

It's just as well. He's awful company.

Sunday dawns obnoxiously bright. It's one of those completely irritating early-March mornings when the bright sun practically blinds you as it's reflected off the wet pavement, when you just know everything that melted during the day, in the false heat of a watery sun, will re-freeze as soon as darkness falls. I'm ready to go early, waiting for my sister and my uncle in the newly-clean kitchen, sitting bolt upright at the table and half-heartedly puffing on one of Hamish's cigarettes. It's not something I do often, and now I remember why.

"Those things'll kill you, ya know," he grumbles, shuffling by in rumpled khakis. He fills the coffee pot and turns in time to see me stub mine out, half-smoked, in the ash tray.

"The taste alone will kill you. How the hell do you smoke these things?"

"How do I do a lot of things," he mumbles. "You ready for today?"

I shrug. I'd better be.

...

I walk through a metal detector shortly after the heavy doors clang behind me, and I'm patted down almost immediately by a tall black woman. She's businesslike but thorough; if I was trying to sneak anything into the jail, she'd have found it.

The place reminds me of a hospital, actually, in its coldness and its businesslike awfulness. Another corridor, another metal detector, and I'm issued a visitor's badge and a set of instructions. Limited physical contact is allowed, but it must be within full view of a guard. The visit cannot last more than an hour. There can be no violence between parties, including verbal altercation. I look up at this, frowning, then back down at my hands, nodding that I've understood.

I am so angry by the time I reach the small room with the circular table and chairs that I think it's a good thing they gave me that warning about violence. I hate her for making me do this, for having me patted down and scrutinized just to see her. I hate her for putting Prim in this position every other fucking weekend. My carefully-prepared speech flies out the window and I want to rail at her, want to pour my frustration and anger at my mother. I want to make her feel what she's put us through.

The room is guarded by a petite blonde woman who's shorter than I am, but still looks like she could kick me to the curb. She'll be our only witness, I guess. The door opposite mine squeals as it swings open, and my mother appears.

She's frailer, older-looking and also more sober than I remember, her skin washed-out and pale looking against the bright orange jumpsuit. Her eyes widen, then soften as she sees me, as I stand on trembling legs, wondering suddenly,_ What does she see_?

"Oh, Katniss," she says, her voice soft and hesitant, and all my anger is gone. Just gone. I remember that voice in a way that I haven't wanted to remember in a long time: the way she used to talk to my sister and I before bed, just before we'd go to sleep, and again, to wake us up for school. Gentle and kind. "Oh, honey," she says, and covers her mouth with both her hands.

"Mom," I reply, and my voice is small and broken, a child's voice.

She rushes over to me and throws her arms around me, and the guard in the corner takes a step forward, frowning, then steps back into place. An embrace, apparently, is permitted. My mother holds me for a moment, and my arms fall around her awkwardly. She pulls back, cupping my face in her hands, smiling. "Honey. You look so tired."

I was prepared for today. I wanted to tell my mother about the struggles Prim and I have gone through, how hard it's been, what it's meant for our lives that we've had to be so independant at such an early age. What her selfishness cost us.

Instead, I find myself telling her about school, my classes and friends (or former friends). I tell her about Prim, and how proud I am that she's flourishing at her new school. I get excited, animated as I talk. She listens, smiling. I appear to be someone who loves her life.

And then, she asks about Peeta.

"Prim has mentioned this young man you're seeing, quite frequently," she says with a smile. "Will you tell me about it?"

And I hate to squash that hopeful spark in her eye, the one that says _Maybe I didn't screw this up as royally as I thought; maybe they're still all right_. "Oh..." I say, staring down at my folded hands. "We're actually...we're not...we broke up." I shrug, looking off to the side and biting at my thumbnail. I wait for her to scold me for it.

But all she says is, "Oh honey. That's too bad. It sounded like things were pretty serious there for a while."

I nod, pressing my lips together. "Yeah well. They were, but. Then he really got to know me." I shrug again. _No big deal, Mom_.

She frowns. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well...he's a good person, Mom. And I think maybe he finally started to see me for who I really am." I say it in a rush, ashamed.

"Katniss, look at me." I do, and her eyes have gone hard, her mouth a firm line. I recognize this as her scolding-face, and it's something Prim has inherited from her exactly. "As your mother, believe me when I tell you: if he's walking around thinking you aren't a good person, then he is_ not _seeing you for who you really are."

"I'm sorry, ladies. Time's up."

I had forgotten the blonde guard in the corner until now. She's wearing a pert smile and advancing toward our table.

I look back at Mom in a panic, and she reaches down to take both of my hands in hers. "Come back again, Katniss. Will you?" There's a fiercely hopeful look in her eyes now, and I nod mutely. "Honey..." she continues, frowning a little, as the guard closes in behind her. "I know it hasn't been easy for you. Either of you. But...I am so, so proud of you. So proud."

She's walked back to the door and suddenly, before I'm ready for it, she's gone again.

...

I walk back to Hamish's car on trembling legs, fumble with the door handle a bit and slump down in the backseat, for once letting Prim have shotgun.

I was not expecting that.

I'm completely disarmed. I don't know what to do. I don't know who I am, if I'm not angry at her. I'm the girl who made it on her own, who fought her way through so her sister could have a normal life. I don't want to say that my anger fueled me, all those years, but it definitely made me into someone with something to prove. I wanted to prove I could make it without her. I wanted to prove we didn't need her. It made me defiant.

And now...I have nothing to defy. How do you defy love?

I stare out the window; the landscape is so ugly, with its bare trees and blackened snow. Hamish's car has developed an alarming shimmy at higher speeds, and I get a dull headache from resting my forehead against the window. It rattles all the way back into my molars, shaking my brain.

Mercifully, there is no conversation; every time Hamish moves to start in on me about my visit with Mom, Prim interrupts him and guides him into another conversation entirely. They drop me off at my apartment, and Prim squeezes my hand and tells me she'll call me tonight. I nod.

My mother is better. For now. She's lost that crazy, needful look. She doesn't look healthy, exactly, but she looks like she's trying. In the past three years, something has changed and she's turned herself around. For now.

I don't trust it. But there's a wild, young and innocent part of me that wants so badly to trust that she's better. That's the part of me that remembers her holding me late into the night, cuddling in bed with baby Prim, tickling her and making her giggle. I remember walking down the sidewalk with Mom and Prim and being so proud of my family. I remember my first day of school, singing all by myself in music class, and how proud Mom was when I told her about it.

I remember so many things, so many more than I thought I would.

In my dream that night, Mom is the way she was before Dad died. She's moving around our old house in Munjoy, humming tunelessly to herself, straightening the house, picking up toys and smiling to herself. Her hair is loose and spills in golden waves over her shoulders, and her sundress is a soft pale blue.

"Grace," my dad says from the kitchen door, and my mom's head whips around. She's smiling that special smile, the one she saves for only him. She skips across the kitchen and throws herself into his arms. He envelops her, and she laughs as he lifts her up and spins her around, crushing her mouth in a kiss as he sets her down.

"Daddy!" I call from the doorway, and they both look away from the kiss, faces flushed. My mom is still wearing that smile.

I know that smile.

Her face morphs into my face, in the dream, the hair and skin darker, the bones less delicate. The man she's embracing is fair, and wearing a teasing half-smile. He runs his hand down through her hair as I watch, and she gazes into his face like he's the only one in the world.

I wake up then, a sob pushing up through my chest, a sob to which I can't give voice.

It's a grey and gloomy Monday morning, and I have classes today, but I'm not going.

I throw on a random collection of clothing, just barely remembering my phone as I barrel out the door and down the stairs. I barely register the cold as I stalk down the sidewalk, barely feel the crisp air and the smell of impending snow. I haven't watched a weather report; this could be the storm of the century on its way and I wouldn't know it.

Tiny flakes are beginning to fall as I board the shuttle for Gorham. I don't really ask myself what I'm doing. All I know is that there is one other person who knows my family well enough to know what I'm feeling right now.

He will understand. He will help me figure out what to do with all of this. There must be a place to put love, just like there was a place inside me to put the fear and the anger.

The flakes are steadily drifting to the ground, sticking to the muddy ground in white speckles, when I find myself in front of Robie again. I haven't been to this dorm in several months. I just hope he's home. I really need to talk.

I follow someone inside and mount the stairs, breezing right by the second floor doorway, climbing up to Gale's all-boys' floor. It's a sty as usual, but today I don't care. I find myself clutching my hands together as I approach his door. R.A. ON DUTY 9-4 TODAY, the white board announces. Meaning he's in there, free to talk. I raise my hand to knock on Gale's door.

_Leave him behind_. The voice is small but clear, sounding from that corner of my brain I'd thought was dead. It sounds like my sister. _Leave him_.

_Leave him behind_.

I back away, frowning, ready to argue with myself. This is my oldest friend, nearly. To leave him behind is to leave behind-

There is a loud crash from somewhere down the hallway, followed by a string of curses, and it snaps me to attention. A door opens, several guys pour out of the room. I hear yelling. I hear movement behind Gale's door.

I turn and walk quickly away, pushing through the group of guys now making their way toward Gale's door, shoving open the door to the stairwell, pounding down two flights and coming to rest on the second-floor landing.

_Leave him behind._

"Yeah..." I nod to myself. I must look like a crazy person, talking back to the voice in my head. I sink down so I'm sitting on the bottom stair, clutching the railing with one hand. My other hand is covering my face; I lower it, and it's wet with tears.

Finally.

I'm really, really alone.

The sobs explode out of me.

It was good once, this life. I remember.

_Leave it behind_.

My stomach is clenching and unclenching, the muscles sore. I'm hunched over myself, my body almost a circle.

I drag my nose across the sleeve of my coat, then bury my face in both of my hands, my hot eyes spilling tears like they're just now remembering how to weep.

I don't hear the door squeak open, but I gradually become aware of his sneakers in front of me, his knee as he crouches down, supporting himself against the banister with one strong arm.

I feel his hand, warm, squeezing my shoulder, drifting up to work its way into my hair, running his fingers through the strands that have worked themselves free of my I-don't-give-a-shit braid.

"Katniss?"

There's that deep and softly-lilting voice. I don't believe it's really him, until the smell hits me. Sugar and french fries and Old Spice.

I lift my face from my hands, and there he is, a little thinner and paler, with dark-circled eyes, but really there.

He reaches out and runs the back of his hand down my face, from cheekbone to chin. His hand comes away wet.

Peeta tilts his head back, in the direction of the second-floor doorway. And his room, the door standing open, as warm and inviting as he is.

"C'mon," he says.


	13. My Only Art

Chap 13: My Only Art

_Everything that keeps me together is falling apart,  
I've got this thing that I consider my only art of fucking people over_

-Modest Mouse, _Third Planet_

I'm crying so hard that I can barely see in front of me; Peeta's hand on my elbow is the only thing keeping me from running into walls, as we make our way through the hallway and into his room.

I hunch into his desk chair and hide my face in my hands; he settles on the bed and is quiet. My body convulses a few more times, then silently leaks tears for a few minutes more. Finally, with a few deep breaths, I'm silent.

"Can I tell you something?" His voice cuts into the silence, and I look up to find him watching me, brow furrowed. He still looks too pale, his clothes a bit too baggy.

"Sure." My voice is a wreck, the word no more than a hoarse whisper.

He takes a deep, ragged breath. "I miss you. Very, very much."

I feel my face crumple, and my legs are beyond my control as they propel me off the seat and onto the bed next to him. My arms are crushing him. My nose is crushed against his shoulder and the sweet smell of him brings everything flooding back, just everything.

He hesitates for a moment, then his arms are around me too, gathering me in. "I missed you," he murmurs again, breath warm on my skull.

"I'm sorry," I sob, the words choking me. "I'm so...I'm sorry, Peeta."

"No," he whispers. I feel him shaking his head.

"I just...I want to explain-"

"You don't have to."

"I do." I sit back, look up at him; our faces are too close, and we both move back at the same time.

He shakes his head again. "You don't. I, uh...I already heard it."

"From who?"

"Ah..." He rubs the bridge of his nose, sitting back against the wall. "Gale."

"What."

The shock must show on my face, because he's grinning mirthlessly as he says, "Yeah. He came to see me a week or so ago."

"He...came to see you." Peeta nods, and I sit back so that I'm propped against the other wall. "That's...what the hell did he say?"

"He said that...you guys didn't plan to meet that night. That you'd actually been talking about me, sort of, and he told you he was happy for you. Us." He raises his eyebrows at me, and I just nod back, confirming that it's the truth. "That he didn't realize how messed up you were, and he tried to hug you but you turned your head at the last second and it turned into..."

"...what you saw," I finished for him.

"So, is that it?" he asks, watching me with wide eyes. They're not suspicious, and they're not accusatory. Just curious, and kind.

"Yeah...that's pretty much it." I bury my face in my hands again. "I feel so stupid. But yeah, that's what happened. Peeta, I tried to tell you."

"I know. And trust me, you don't feel half as stupid as I felt."

"Why do you feel stupid?"

"Because I hit him."

I sit up straight, and duck my head to catch his eye. "You hit Gale?" He nods. "When?"

"When he first came to my door. Before he had a chance to say anything."

My eyes widen. "Did he hit you back?"

"No." He chuckles, and there's more humor behind it now. "I think he was just surprised that I can still hit that hard." I frown, wanting to delve more into why, exactly, he looks so sick and weak. "But what he said made a lot of sense. So, I restrained myself from hitting him again."

"What did he say that made sense?"

"That I should at least give you a chance to say something. And that if being apart was making us both so miserable, we should probably try to fix that."

I snort, shaking my head. "How would he know that I'm miserable?"

"He saw you leaving work the other night. He said you looked like death."

I raise my eyes to meet his, and find a mirror of my own dark circles. I can't bring myself to tell him that he looks like death, too; the thought makes me shiver.

Instead, I chew on my lip before blurting, "I went to visit my mom yesterday."

I glance up, and his face is slack with surprise, one side of his mouth curling up. It makes me want to smile, too. "Really? Wow, Katniss." He runs a hand through his hair, and I bunch up my own fist, wanting to do the same. "That's...is that why you're so upset?"

I nod, looking back down at my hands. "Yeah, well...that, and the obvious."

There are many directions in which we could take the ensuing silence. We could turn it into another fight, about exactly whose fault the "obvious" is. One of us could glance out the window and remark that the snow and wind are picking up dangerously, and if I don't leave now I'll be stuck here all night.

Instead, Peeta settles down against his pillow and holds out one hand to me. "C'mere," he says.

I go to him, settling down within the crook of his arm and resting my chin on his chest. We're carefully not touching anywhere that matters. But it's so, so nice that I can't bring myself to want anything more. Ever.

"Tell me about your mom," he says, staring up at the ceiling. One of his hands steals around and begins combing through my hair, and I lean into his touch.

"She's..." I let out a long sigh. Where to begin? "She's...better." I shake my head. "She's calm. Nice." I raise my eyes to meet his. "Clean."

"...But?"

I look down again, twisting my fingers together in my lap. I see Peeta's fingers twitch, and his hand jerks toward mine before he restrains it and makes it into a scratch of his leg. I give a grim smirk that he can't see as I reply, "For now." I settle back against the wall, thunking my head backward a bit too hard, and he raises an eyebrow at me. "She's good, for now. She's clean, for now." I shake my head. "She's getting out soon. She's going to go back to living with Hamish, and she's going to..." I sigh again. "She's going to go back to using again. I know it. It'll be like before. Like when we thought she was getting better, and poor...poor Prim would get so excited and happy. And she'd talk about all the things we were going to do together, now that she was better. And Peeta." I turn to him, and I know my eyes are lighting up the way Prim's did back then, because I just can't help it. "When she was good, she was really good. She was the best mom...before. And when she would try to clean up, things were...almost normal. And then..."

"And then," he says. I look up at him, and it's like...he knows. He just _knows_.

God. I missed him, too.

Slowly, slowly, I settle my head down against his shoulder. He shifts slightly, whether to get closer to me or to shift further away, I can't tell. It doesn't matter. The snow outside is a heavy sheet of white, the wind an angry howl. We're not going anywhere.

"Tell me about _your _mom," I say.

His eyes are wide, first with surprise, then with quiet amusement. He settles back against the wall, chuckling. "Guess I deserved that, huh?"

I don't answer, just watch him as his grin slowly fades. I follow his gaze; he's staring across the room at one of his pictures. I recognize it as a view of the woods behind his house. He's chewing on a corner of his lip, and I just wait.

"She...liked it, when I was sick."

That gets my attention. I sit up straight and just stare at him.

He glances at me from the corner of his eye, then shakes his head. "That sounded awful. It wasn't like that. Not...not really." He shifts again, propping himself more firmly against the wall and scratching at the place where his leg and prosthesis meet. I don't even think he realizes he's doing it.

I settle back against the wall, slowly.

"She was cruel," he finally says. "To us. As kids. She was really nice when other people were around. Parties. School. You know. But when we were alone? When Dad was at work?" He shakes his head again. "She'd just sweep us aside. Like she had better things to do." He says the words bitingly. "She talked to us like we were nothing. Like we were stupid. I got it the worst, I..." He trails off, biting his lip and picking furiously at his thumbnail. My hand twitches toward his, wanting to hold it, to smooth his fingers back and kiss the ragged skin. But I don't. "For some reason, I don't know, maybe I was more sensitive, maybe I just wanted to please her more than Jonah and Mike ever did. I tried and tried and...nothing. She hated me." His voice breaks, and this time I can't stop myself. This time, I reach over and take hold of his fingers, stilling them with a gentle squeeze.

He hesitates, then squeezes me back, and we just sit like that.

"Then I got sick." It's a whisper, husky and strained, and I have to lean forward to hear it. "And. She liked me being sick." He shivers, and I shift closer, our hips bumping. He doesn't move away. "She got nice. All of a sudden. I think it gave her control. It gave her...a purpose. She was there, at the hospital, all the time." He shifts his weight again, and suddenly his arm is around me and his body is flush with mine. It's so warm and solid a comfort that I almost cry again. "All. The time. She...she joined all of these groups. Online. These 'Moms of Sick Kids' groups."

He's crying. I realize it with such an abrupt shock that I move without thinking, turning toward him and covering him with my warmth, running my fingertips over his cheeks to catch the seeping moisture. His cheekbones are so much more prominent now. He gathers me into him like it's nothing, like no time has passed. I lower my head onto his chest; it hitches a few times before he continues.

"And I'm not saying that's a bad thing, you know? It's not, at all. It's just...she was so focused on her experience of it. On what it was doing to _her_. She was so focused on being a good 'Mom of a Sick Kid.' She was always talking to all of them, and. Um. She never really talked to me." He pauses, and his chest hitches a few more times. "So I stopped talking to her too. Stopped feeding her sad stories. I told the nurses I didn't want to see her. And they suggested to her that maybe she shouldn't come visit quite so often any more. That maybe she should focus on what_ I _needed. And then...she got mean again." He clears his throat. "She's only really nice when other people are around."

I lay my hand flat against his breastbone, and I watch it rise and fall. Rise and fall.

Finally: "Why did you never tell me this before?"

"...I just didn't want to burden you, I guess." He looks away, across the room again. "I guess I'm not the best at that. Being honest about myself. I guess...I always think it'll scare people away. I thought it would scare you away."

I lift my head, frowning. "Peeta." I wait until he's looking at me with red-rimmed eyes. "That's stupid."

And there's that lopsided smile. It's watery and weak, but it's there. "Yeah, I know," he says, chuckling.

"There's no way you could scare me away."

"I know." He nods, the chuckle fading to a warm smile.

I drop my head back down into the hollow beneath his shoulder, suddenly exhausted. "You're kind of stuck with me."

He pulls me closer against him and rests his cheek against my hair. "I know."

He doesn't sound at all bummed about it.

We doze, watching the light fade to winter blue, and we carefully don't talk about the fact that we're stranded here together for the night, and our bodies are still carefully not touching in all of the places that matter.

But it doesn't matter.

This is the last storm of the winter, the very last, and it has no teeth.

...

It's a tentative friendship, or whatever it is.

We don't have any classes together, thanks to Peeta dropping math (I learn that he's dropped the minor entirely), so we meet up for lunches and dinners, and occasional get togethers with the group. Nothing happened on the night of the snowstorm, and when we touch now, it's fleeting. A clasp of the hands where one of us lets go a moment too soon. A brush of my hair on his arm, his toes against my leg under the table. Things that could be accidental, but aren't.

I don't know what we're waiting for. An opportunity, maybe.

He starts coming over again, on Fridays, but he doesn't stay the night. He comes over on Saturdays and we watch movies with Prim, and he goes back to the dorm at 9:30, and Prim frowns at me oddly on the way to bed.

We talk...sort of. We talk about the things we used to talk about, but with one crucial difference. And if I could figure out what that difference is, I could do something about it and end all of this awkwardness.

...

"Spring Break" is kind of a running joke at Maine colleges. It takes place in mid-to-late March, which is the start of spring on the calendar, but still very much the thick of winter in the Northeast. It's not unusual to have your travel plans upended by a snowstorm.

Still, people talk about it excitedly at the lunch table on the Thursday before the weeklong break. Mitch and Di are headed for Daytona Beach, and can't stop grinning foolishly at one another. Peeta and I are sneaking glances at one another when we think the other one's not looking. It's stupid. It's as if we're starting over, like we were never anything to one another. Being this close to an obviously happy couple is irritating me.

"Just don't tell your mom _anything_," Diana begs, tugging on Mitch's arm.

"Oh, come on. She's not that scary."

Di stares at him. "She's _very_ scary."

I meet Peeta's eyes and quickly look away; I'm sure his smirk mirrors mine. "What did she say to you, anyway?" I ask.

"She didn't _say_ anything," Di snaps, violently chewing a fry. "She didn't have to. It's very clear she hates me."

"She couldn't say anything," says Mitch, laughing. "She doesn't speak English all that well."

"She doesn't?" I frown.

"Somali." He shrugs. "She never had to learn English, because one of us would go with her everywhere."

"Somali? Really?"

"Yeah. We emigrated when I was nine."

"Wow...I had no idea."

"Yeah, I blend in." He smiles, slipping his arm around Diana, who snuggles into him.

She grins and runs a hand through Mitch's curly hair. "His accent is more noticeable when he's..." She trails off, eyes widening, and presses her lips together as Mitch turns a dusky red.

Peeta hides a laugh behind his fist, pretending to cough, as Mitch clears his throat and stands. "I'm getting more soda."

"Me too." Peeta winks at me before standing to join him, coughing into his fist again, this time not to disguise a laugh.

I frown after him, but Di interrupts my train of thought. "Mitch _Erasto_. You really had no idea?"

I roll my eyes and twist my hand to point up at myself. "Not the most observant. Remember?"

She nods, grinning, then leans forward. "Hey. I'm, uh...glad you're back."

I raise my eyebrows. "Thanks, um. Me too."

We sit in mostly-comfortable silence until the boys return. Peeta slides a coke across the table for me; our fingers touch as I move to take it from him and my hand jerks, nearly spilling it.

Mitch and Di don't notice; they're talking about spring break. I watch them talk and interact for a while, trying not to feel wistful, then drop my eyes to my plate to find my lunch is still untouched.

"What are you doing for break?"

I look up to find that Peeta has been watching me, and I feel a warm shiver that I try to pass off as a shrug. "Nothing. Working." I flip my braid back over my shoulder and fiddle with my napkin, looking everywhere but at him. "You?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing here, either. Staying in student housing, actually, since all the dorms are closing." He nibbles on a fry, watching me.

I clear my throat, my pulse thrumming in my ears. Say it. Just say it. "That sucks. You should..." Shit. I am a coward. I take a sip of my drink, setting the glass back down carefully and sliding it back and forth, watching the ring of condensation smear across the table. "You could stay at my place."

His mouth pops open. Silence.

Shit. Shit. Shit. "I mean. If you want to. It's just...student housing sucks. And...I mean, Prim won't be there most of the week, her break isn't until next month, so her room is free. It's more comfortable than the couch. I mean, not that you'd...um, you could-"

"I could," he interrupts, fighting back a smile, watching me so knowingly that I have to look down.

"You could," I say, biting my lip to tamp down the grin that's fighting free.

...

Despite my offer, Sunday is the first night he stays. Prim has just left for Hamish's for the week, and Peeta's cooking me dinner: pasta with some kind of cream sauce, and a salad with tomatos and avocado and these little blocks of cheddar cheese. The TV's playing a movie in the background, but I've got my back to it and I'm leaning against the wall, watching Peeta as he works. Just now, he's slicing the avocados, something that would probably take me about ten minutes to figure out the logistics of, but which he completes with a few flicks of the knife.

"Wow," I breathe.

He glances up, flicking a bit of hair out of his eyes (he still needs a haircut), and smiles. "What?"

_You're so beautiful in this moment, _I should say. _I'm so glad you're here again_. Even, _Get over here and kiss me. _I should give voice to any of the thoughts creeping through my brain. Instead, I come out with, "You look so at home, doing that."

He shrugs, and his smile broadens, one corner of his mouth pulling up in that mischievous way. "These avocados had it coming."

I nod, pulling my face into mock-seriousness. "Totally."

He's looking at me and not the cutting board, and he brings the knife down at the wrong angle. He pulls his hand back with a sharp intake of breath, popping his thumb into his mouth with a frown.

"Oh my god. What happened?" I step closer, and watch red bloom across the base of his thumb.

"I'm stupid. That's what happened." He closes the pad of his other thumb over the cut.

I bring my hand to my forehead. "No it's my fault. I distracted you. Do you need stitches? Should we-"

He waves me off, and I notice more red pooling into his palm. "No. Forget it, it's not deep. Do you have bandaids?"

"Um, yeah. Under the bathroom sink, I think. But are you sure we shouldn't-"

He shakes his head. "I'll go wash this. Could you get rid of that avocado? I don't think it's usable. Or the cutting board, for that matter." He inclines his head toward the blood-spattered fruit and knife.

Great, I think, as I dispose of the avocado and rinse the cutting board and knife in the sink. _That's my version of seduction, now. Getting him to nearly slice his finger off. Nice, very nice. _

I'm still muttering to myself, turning down the burner under the boiling pasta and wiping off my hands with a dishcloth, when I turn to find him standing in the hallway again, his face drained of color.

I drop the dishcloth and stride toward him, frowning. "I knew it. I knew you needed sti-" And that's when I see what he has in his hand.

It's a blue box. A box he found under the bathroom sink, because...yes. I am an idiot.

"What's this?" His voice is strange, almost strangled, though I can tell he's trying to be nonchalant. He sets the box on the table, and the one unused test rattles around inside, like an accusation.

"Oh. It's..." It's perfectly obvious what it is. What he really wants to know is, why do I have it. I open my mouth and look up at him, and there's something breakable there in his eyes, like he's going to shatter if I say the wrong thing. "It's...nothing, I...I had thought at one point that I might be..." I can't say the word. I catch his eye, and if it's possible, he's even more ashen now than when he first came in the room. He sits down heavily, and I take a step toward him. "...but I wasn't. I'm not. I mean, it was, um, negative."

And there it is again: that twinge of something like regret, roiling deep in my belly. This ridiculous feeling that made no sense then, and makes less sense now. I roll my eyes at myself, remembering. "Twice, actually. So..."

His face crumples. He buries his head in his hands and shakes silently, and I'm so shocked I can't move.

But I have to move. I have to fix this. As always, it's gone bad so, so quickly that I'm not really sure what's happening.

I take a step forward, then another, and then, damnit, my mouth is running. "God. Peeta. I'm sorry. I didn't think...I guess I should have told you, but..." I shrug, completely at a loss. "Peeta, there was nothing to tell. I swear. It was...I was just late. Stress, or something. I guess."

He continues shaking. It's scaring me a little, and I'm trembling now, the way I always do around him, and I take another step forward. "I'm sorry. I-"

"It's not...that's not why I'm..." His voice is low and hoarse.

"Then...what is it?"

"Katniss...I don't even know..." A shuddering sigh, one that he draws up from the very depths. "I don't even know if I can."

"You don't know if you can-" And then, what he is trying to tell me hits me like a hurricane wind and I drop to my knees in front of him. I clutch at his legs, his hips, his waist. I feel how hard he's shaking. "_Peeta_." I'm whispering. "Because of the-"

"Because of the methotrexate." It's a small and bitter voice. A child's voice, a child like he was when the healing poison possibly stole so much from him. His body, his soul. The chance to know life beyond his own.

I don't know what methotrexate is. I don't even think I could pronounce it. But I know that I hate it. Because if anyone in our small circle of friends, anyone in the world, really, should get the chance to be a dad some day...anyone with half a brain could see that it should be Peeta.

I move my hands up, pressing my palms to the sides of his face and forcing him to look at me. His eyes are red-rimmed and blue; he makes a tiny, choked sound in the back of his throat, and his lips are on mine, suddenly. And just like our first kiss it's hurried and clumsy, our rhythms off, until he grabs hold of my braid and tugs gently, just enough to hold my head still as he runs his tongue along my lip and then into my mouth. I open to him, and his other hand creeps around my waist. Again, like no time has passed at all.

He pulls away, breathing as heavy and ragged as I am. I feel like jelly inside, and the slow burn between my legs flares to life when I hear his voice again. "Please..." Thick with want. I move to kiss him again, leaning my body into his, but he pulls away, moving his mouth to hover over my ear. "Katniss. Please."

"Yes," I tell him. I have never felt more _yes_. I've forgotten to be sad, confused, forgotten everything but this feeling.

"Please be mine again." It's a desperate whisper, rushed, and I think of the time he had me up against that wall at the concert, when he told me what he'd been wanting to tell me for weeks. I know it's the same, now. "I miss you so much."

"I never stopped." I run my parted lips up the curve of his throat, stopping to kiss his chin, and then the corner of his mouth where his smiles begin. "Being yours."

The next kiss knocks me to the floor, and Peeta with me.

I help him up, laughing, and we turn off the stove, abandoning dinner, and go down the hall into my room and shut the door.

...

Some time that night, I think it's around 3AM, we're naked in the bed and drifting in and out of sleep, tangled up as we always were with one another.

I mention, during a drowsy, dreamlike conversation, my mouth muffled in his hair, that next semester we should make an effort to have at least one class together, so we'll have an excuse to study together. You know, _study_. Even if it means we have to take something stupid, like basket weaving.

I expect him to make some crack about how basket weaving is an underappreciated art and I'm just showing my ignorance, or something. I have my retort all ready: _I'll show _you_ an underappreciated art_. My mouth is already curving up into a teasing smile.

Instead, he's silent.

I fall to the side as he sits up, slowly, gathering the sheet into his lap and staring down at his hands in the moonlight. I hate that he won't look at me.

"I'm not going to be here next year," he says.

It hits me like a bomb blast, but instead of exploding, the air in the room goes very still. "...What?"

He balls the sheet in his fists. His voice is tight and strained. "Yeah, I...transferred to WV State. In Charleston. The letter came last month sometime. I did it, um...when we were..."

I nod slowly, sitting up beside him. I'm kind of numb. "And when were you going to tell me this?"

He's biting his lip as he looks at me. "Well, there didn't seem to be a good time. Ever. And then, these past few weeks-"

"-Why mess with a good thing?" I finish. I flash him a tight little grin, but really, I want to scream. "I guess I can't blame you. After, you know."

He runs his hands through his hair, shaking his head, and starts to say something, but I'm hit with the fact of it all at once. He's transferring. He's leaving. In two months; going back home.

I really did fuck this up beyond repair.

He drops his hands and the smell of him hits me all at once, the smell of sweaty, unwashed boy, and tears spring to my eyes. I launch myself forward and catch his open mouth with mine, kissing him hungrily, feverishly, desperately. Showing him, as I can't tell him, how much I don't want him to go. I don't want to lose him when I just got him back.

He lowers himself back onto the bed, pulling me with him until I'm stretched out on top of him. He buries one hand in my tangled hair and grabs the curve of my ass with the other, pulling me down so we're grinding together in the most delicious way. As we've done so many times tonight, I've lost count. The need, this unbearable need for each other, has not left us; I don't think it ever will.

I shift, planting my knees on either side of him and reaching down to guide him inside of me, grinding against him as before. He moans loudly, then catches his breath as my muscles flutter around him; we're both unbelievably close, too close to stop, to wait, to think better of it.

"Oh god," I cry as the burning waves rip through me, as thrusts up once, hard, and buries his face in my neck, his moan vibrating my skin and the hot blood just beneath the surface. "Peeta," I whisper, as my tears start falling in the darkness, as he gathers me up against him and falls back into sleep, his mouth still brushing my pulse point and his cock still lingering inside me. I'm afraid to move, afraid to lose it. This man. This feeling. Right here.

"I don't want you to go."

...

"Wake up."

It's still dark out, and it's freezing, but I keep on nudging and whispering until he groans and rolls over, throwing an arm over me and mumbling something incoherent.

I would like nothing better than to snuggle down beside him under the quilt, where it's warm. But this morning, I have other plans. "Peeta. Get up."

He pops one eye open. "Why?"

"There's something you need to see."

He groans, rubbing his hands over his face. "What's wrong with this picture? You waking _me_ up at the crack of dawn?" He trains his bloodshot eyes on me, and I can almost feel how exhausted he is. More than he should be.

I push my worries aside, for now. There's something not right with him, but asking him about it can wait. I need him to come with me right now, or he's going to miss it.

"Miss what?" Grumbling as he pulls his leg and his pants on.

I don't answer, just pull on some clothes and braid my hair quickly, stuffling the tangles back. I'll fix it later. I'll fix everything later.

I grab his keys, and he falls into the passenger side of his car, not even complaining that I'm driving. I get us a couple of coffees and drive us quickly through deserted, dark pre-dawn Portland. Seeing it empty, like this, really brings home to me what a small place this is. You can know it, inside out, in no time at all. I've had my whole life, and I know it more than I want to.

I park as close to the East End playground as I can. We slog through the dead and crunchy grass, wet and cold with frost, until we reach the bench overlooking the Eastern Promenade, the one we shared last fall, when we were just beginning to know one another. He's shivering badly, even in his winter coat, and I'm not much better; though the calendar says 'spring,' it feels very much like winter.

I wrap us together in the quilt from my bed; I draw my legs up and settle them across his lap, and he wraps his arms around me as the sky lightens.

"We couldn't have done this when it was warmer?" His voice is shaking, he's shivering so much. I pull his hands into mine and envelop them, trying to transfer some of my body heat to him.

"It's never warmer here," I say. "Not at 4AM."

He laughs and draws me closer, and we look to the east, where the sky over the ocean is brightening from black with a few stars, to purple, to azure. A few clouds linger at the horizon, and they're the first to capture the pink-orange glow of the approaching dawn.

He kisses me once, lingering on the skin beneath my ear, and my eyes flutter closed. They open to see that a glowing heart of bright orange has bloomed against the clouds on the horizon, growing and pooling and finally softening as the sun finally peeks over the edge of the world, sending a glowing trail of light across the water. The choppy waves split the light into a million glowing shards.

"I'm going to paint this, you know," he whispers, his mouth still lingering close to my ear.

I smile and turn toward him, resting my forehead against his. "Okay. I'll allow it. But only if I can be in it."

He laughs, tugging on the end of my braid. "Oh, you'll be there. I'll hide you. In the sky, or the water. They'll have to hunt for you, but..." He kisses me, softly. "You'll be there." His eyes meet mine, and the beauty of the morning, the water and the sunlight and the clouds, has nothing on them. Nothing. "I love you so much."

The words hurt. I catch my breath, the physical pain of the enormity of what I'm feeling in this moment proving too much, and I close my eyes against it. "I love you," I choke out.

"I don't want to leave you."

And in that moment...it comes to me. The beginning, the embryo of an idea, an impossible idea. But a wonderful idea. I can't say it out loud, yet. It's too new, too huge. Too impossibly fragile.

"We'll figure it out," I tell him, but I'm unable to suppress a giddy smile.

The light comes up, all around us.

...

**A/N: Boy oh boy. This last month has su-diddly-ucked for JW. There's nothing like a loved one facing a life-threatening illness to put a serious damper on your creativity. I will be working on the last chapter of this as I get the chance, but I make no promises about the timing. Thanks for hanging in, everyone...**


	14. Gravity Rides Everything

Chap 14: Gravity Rides Everything

_In the motions and the things that you say  
It all will fall, fall right into place_

-Modest Mouse, _Gravity Rides Everything_

MAY 8th

It could be any ordinary Wednesday, except for the fact that finals start in two weeks, it's the first really warm day we've had all year, and I'm tapping a grim staccato on our living room rug where the carpet is worn thin, waiting for the mail truck to leave so I can go downstairs and check our box.

I never wait for the mail; it never contains anything I particularly want to see, only electric bills and tuition bills and the occasional credit card offer. Nevertheless, I'm waiting. And our elderly mail carrier (Prim started calling him Hufflepuff last fall, and now I can't look at him without laughing) is taking his sweet time.

I don't know why I'm so anxious. I have plenty of time. Peeta's final student-art exhibit, the one that's worth 40% of his final grade and that he's been obsessing over for a month, isn't until tonight. I still have time to write part of my final project for songwriting, and go over my notes for the rest of the tests. I have time to plan. I have time to prepare.

My mother is being released on Sunday.

Hufflepuff finally pushes his way back out to his mail truck and pulls slowly...slowly away from the curb. I bounce on my toes a few more times, then walk quickly down the stairs and push my way into the entry and fumble the tiny key into my mailbox...and there it is.

It's a narrow envelope, and I can't wait. I rip it open with my fingernails, and I read it, and I can't help it. A stupid grin creeps onto my face, spreading until I'm biting my lip to hold in the laughter.

I stuff the letter into my back pocket and take the stairs two at a time, trying to tamp down my giddiness. I may have fixed this. Or I may have fucked up royally. I won't know until I tell him.

...

I can't stop myself from pulling out the letter and reading it over and over at different times during the day. I get that same stupid grin on my face that I just can't suppress. And of course, that's how Prim finds me when she shows up, unexpectedly, at lunchtime.

I glance up as her key rattles in the lock and the door swings open. She stares at me for a moment before remarking, "Well, someone's having a good day."

I try to wipe the smile off of my face, and fail. No good. I try out my Stern Older Sister: "What are you doing here? Don't you have school?"

Prim shrugs, tossing her bag to the floor and leaning against the kitchen counter. "Do you really think I forgot what day this is? I wanted to wish you a happy-"

I let out a groan. "Please don't tell me you're skipping just because-"

She holds up her hand. "Relax. It's a teacher-development day. We got out at 11:30."

I relax, and let go of Stern Katniss. It's too much work to stay mad at Prim, anyway. "Well, I'm not really celebrating, so..."

"Then what's with the smiling?" She glances down the hallway. "I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

I toss my pencil at her, and she ducks, laughing. "Stop it," I warn. "Peeta's holed up in the studio all day. His show is tonight."

"Okay, okay." She turns to open the fridge, surveys the carton of chocolate milk, half-empty container of taboule and elderly square of cheddar cheese, and closes the door again. "Hey..." Her face is suddenly serious, the vertical think-line creasing her forehead, and I sit up straighter, stuffing the letter between two pages of my book. "I want to talk to you about something."

"Okay. Shoot."

She bites her lip, staring at the toes of her sneakers. "Mom's...she's..."

"Sunday," I supply.

"Yeah. Um..." She squints, looking back up at me. "Kat?"

I nod.

"She can't live with Hamish."

I close my eyes, sighing. The plan, as it stands now, is that our Mom will take one of Uncle Hamish's empty rooms while she's trying to re-insert herself into her own life after prison. It's a shitty plan, as Hamish is probably the world's worst choice for sheltering a former addict. One who plans to stay clean, anyway. There's enough alcohol in that house to kill a small army, and their horses. "Yeah."

"I mean..." She's twisting her fingers together as she speaks, just like I do when I'm nervous. "He's her brother. And I'm sure he means well. But..."

"I know, Ducky. It'll end bad. She'll go back to..."

"Right." She bites her lip at me again before blurting, "I think we should ask Mom to live here. With us."

I just stare at her. Not because it's such an outlandish suggestion. It's not. I'm amazed, and a little pissed at myself, that I didn't think of it first.

Because my baby sister has just handed me the solution to the only barrier I had left.

She takes my silence for disapproval, and continues in a rush. "I mean, it would be so much better for her. And I know there's no space as it is, but you and I could go back to sharing a room. Or one of us could share with her. Something. I really think that if she's here, she could do it this time. She could be-"

"Prim?"

She presses her lips together. "Yeah?"

"I think that's a great idea."

Her body sags, and her face relaxes into a smile. "Really?"

"I mean..." The foolish happiness is creeping back onto my face, and I can't stop it. "I think this time...you're right. She's different. I think if she has us, she could do it." Prim's chin is trembling. I get up, closing the letter inside my book for now, and enfold her in my arms. She buries her face in my shoulder, and I can feel her smiling.

"It would make me so happy. You have no idea." She's sniffling a bit.

I pull back and look up into her face, her lovely, delicate features trembling as the tears start to fall. I run my fingertips lightly underneath her eyes. It's been so long since she's had a real family, a real Mom. "Then we'll do it."

And then it hits me. I'm looking _up_. Into the face of my baby sister. Up.

"Hey," I say, wiping one more tear off of her cheek and stepping back, my hands resting on her shoulders. "Since when are you taller than me?"

She laughs again, the beautiful sound bubbling up and out of her. "I don't know. Since this winter, some time?"

"And...how did I not notice?"

"I don't know. You were a little bit, um, distracted." She shrugs as I glance away, embarrassed to admit she's right. "It's weird, right?"

"Yeah. A little weird." A lot weird. This tall, willowy, suddenly-mature creature in front of me can't be my Prim. She turns 15 later this month, and I haven't even thought about what that means. What I was doing when I was 15. How old I felt.

"Well...you didn't expect me to be Little Duck forever, did you?"

_Yeah. I kind of did_. "No. No, of course not." I shove her playfully, and she shoves me back, and we go back to joking.

But I watch her all through lunch, as she moves easily about the kitchen (Peeta's been teaching her), her movements graceful and careful, deliberate, measured. She talks like she moves: deliberate, understated, staggeringly mature and brilliant. This is my Little Duck, becoming the woman she's going to be.

My heart shifts: an exquisitely painful forward movement.

...

It's still too goddamn cold to go to the beach. But today, I manage it for my oldest friend.

"Hey." Madge greets me from our favorite rock, the one that's flat on top, snugged up against the tidewater jetty and just big enough across the top for three kids to sit on, with just enough space between them in the dark they can still feel each other's warmth. Barely.

East End Beach is almost deserted, today being a weekday and the temperature hovering in the high 50s. The windchill is about 10 degrees lower, and boy, is it blowing today. Loose strands of hair whip around my face as I squint against the salt spray. Madge is wrapped in her winter coat, shivering as she says, "Happy bir-"

"Don't even start." I point at her, raising my eyebrows.

She smiles that megawatt-Madge smile, pulling me into a hug. "Okay. Sorry. Sorry," she murmurs, as I pat her back awkwardly. "I know you don't like..." She trails off as we pull away and settle down next to each other. "I just, you know. You're actually legal now. It's kind of exciting."

I just raise an eyebrow at her, and we dissolve into laughter, from which we take our time recovering. It's weird, being here in the daylight. I can actually see how dinky and dirty and sad this beach is. At least at night, it was romantic and exciting slipping under the fence to hang out on the beach. We felt like rebels. Doing that now would be weird, and not just because of what's happened between me and Gale.

It would be weird because...well, I'm too old. I'm past it.

We're silent for a while before Madge finally says, "Crazy year, huh?"

I laugh silently, pressing my lips together. "You could say that."

"Crazy wonderful, for you."

"Yeah. Well, mostly."

"What do you mean 'mostly?' I'd say starting college, reconciling with your mom and meeting the man of your dreams rates more than a 'mostly.'"

"Please." I snort and look away, but that stupid smile is tugging at the corners of my lips again. It just won't let me go.

Madge sees, and nudges me with her elbow. "See? You know it."

"Whatever." I shake my head, looking out at the ocean. The wind is whipping the dusky blue waves into whitecaps, and I shiver against it, hugging my arms around myself. "Actually, I'm meeting him for an early dinner before his show tonight." I pull out my phone to glance at the time, and there's a text from him. _ Love you. So nervous! 5? _My smile grows, and I slip it back into my pocket.

I look up to find Madge watching me with a knowing smirk. "What time?"

"Five..."

She nods. "I'll give you a ride over, then. I'm dropping by, um." She stops, frowning.

"You're dropping by...to see who?"

"Uh...Gale?"

She's dropped her head and is staring down at the sand, tracing her toes back and forth. I shake my head. "You can say his name, you know. It's all right." She bites her lip and won't look at me, and I am suddenly confused as shit. "So...what is he up to, these days?"

She shrugs. "Oh, um, nothing. I'm actually helping him move out."

"Oh." I frown and try to meet her eyes. "But..." And then. Then I see the look on her face. The barely-concealed panic. The nervous twitching. The blush. _"Oh." _I look away from her, back out at the waves, rising and falling with violent, restless motion. "Oh my god."

"Kat?" I look back and her face is pinched and terrified. "Please don't be mad."

My mouth drops open. I never even considered being mad. "Why would I be mad?" She visibly relaxes, her face falling and her body sagging. "And why didn't you ever tell me that you...that you two..."

"Kat. Please." She meets my eyes finally, and I see again the wry humor, a flash of my old friend Madge. "I just...I know, okay? I know you guys have a history. Hardly anyone didn't know..."

"Oh, great. Here I was thinking we were hiding it so well..."

"Well." She shrugs. "He's not the most subtle guy, you know. And you...everything you feel shows on your face. You can't help yourself."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not sure how much I actually felt," I mumble, wrapping my arms tighter around my midsection.

I feel her watching me, but I can't look. "Well, I know he loves you."

"Loved."

"Whatever." It's the first note of bitterness I've heard from her, and it makes me look at her sharply. But she's turned away. "There was never anyone else in the room, when you were there. Not for him. Everyone else might as well have disappeared. That doesn't just go away."

"Madge." _Look at me_. But she doesn't. "How long?" _How long did you feel this for him? How long did you hurt? Because of me?_

She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. I just. I know what you're going to say." She's talking like she's already resigned. That we can't be friends any more, if this happens for her.

"No, you don't." I move closer to her and nudge her with my shoulder, an affectionate bump that's not a hug or a kiss or a cry, because Kat doesn't do that. All I can manage is the truth. "I never felt for him what...what I..."

"What you feel for Peeta?"

I bite my lip. This may be the first time I've admitted this, out loud. "No. I never felt for him what I feel for Peeta." I shiver, and it's not from the wind this time. "And I don't think Gale did, either. Not really. It was more...we both...needed something." Jesus. Words are not my strong suit. "And we thought that we could find it in each other. But in the end, we just. Couldn't."

When I look at her this time, her eyes hold this wild hope that makes my heart ache. "So you're not going to hate me. If..."

I shake my head, grinning. "No. I'm going to be really happy for you."

She pulls me into a sudden hug that smothers the breath from my lungs with a whoosh.

I hug back. Maybe I'm growing sentimental, in my old age.

...

There is just no way to make the first floor of the USM library look like an art gallery. They've done their level best: the usual displays have been pushed to the sides and the walls have been cleared. Temporary partitions divide the floor into sections, by class; Peeta's section is off to the side, near the elevators, and I see him as I make my way over there. His paintings are all over the walls; I recognize a few, but some are more recent, and I'm looking forward to seeing what he's done. He may be the most amazingly talented person I've ever known.

My pace slows; he is deep in discussion with one of his professors, his brow furrowed, arms crossed. He looks so sexy right now in the dimmed light, shaggy hair falling into his eyes (he won't cut it because he knows I love to bug him about it), jeans that are just the tiniest bit too tight. He's gained back some of the lost weight in the last few months, and his clothes have started to hug him again, around the chest and the seat of his pants.

My stomach gives a growl, and my mind flashes back to our dinner.

We never did get around to eating.

He catches sight of me and turns slightly, letting his eyes roam up and down. All I could manage was black jeans and the black top from the concert last fall; it's about as 'artsy' as I get. But I guess it works, because his tongue darts out to wet his lips and my kneecaps jump; he says something to the professor, inching away from her, and moves straight toward me, meeting my eyes with an dark and playful look.

He grabs my hand and spins me around toward the elevator, punching the Up button and grabbing a shopping bag from the floor.

"Hey," I say, laughing, and tug back on his hand. "What are you doing? I want to see your stuff."

"You will," he tells me. "In a while." The elevator door opens; he glances over his shoulder, and then pulls me in after him, hitting the button for the top floor. I look out just before the doors close, but no one seems to have noticed us leaving, or if they have, they don't care. "I have something for you, first."

We start to rise, and I cross my arms and scowl at him.

He shakes his head. "Come on. You honestly didn't think I'd realize what day this is? What kind of boyfriend would I be-"

"I don't like to make a big deal out of it," I say through my teeth. But the smile won't stay away. I take a step toward him. "Besides. I thought you gave me my present earlier."

He takes a step toward me. "Oh. But that was only part of your gift."

I bite my lip, snaking my arms around his neck. "Wow."

The doors open on the top floor of the library, and we are greeted by...darkness. Empty space, dotted with pillars. The smell of fresh paint. There are floor-to-ceiling windows all around; they look out onto the lights of the city on the hill, the darkened campus, the highway. The blue glow of early evening; our favorite light.

"Nice view." I step out into the empty, echoey space, smiling back at him.

"I know...they're re-doing this floor." He leans against a pillar as I wander over to a window. The glass is cold against my palm; the city is dark and, from this height, quiet. "Not quite done yet, thought. The art shows next year will be up here."

The art shows next year: the ones he won't be a part of. Because he's leaving Portland.

I hear the crinkling of the shopping bag behind me, and when I turn around, Peeta's holding a small square package about the size of a book, wrapped in silver paper.

I frown at him. "What the fuck did you do?" He just smiles. "You didn't have to. This is _your _night-"

"This is _your_ birthday." He walks toward me, and I shift so that my back is against a cold metal divider between two windows. "And I wanted to." He stops very close to me, and holds out the box. "Open it."

I smirk at him, grab the present and tear the paper.

It's a small notebook, hand-bound with elaborately braided twine; the cover is some kind of soft wood, laminated and covered over with real, pressed flowers, worked into the wood, somehow, like they grew there. Violets and lilies, primrose and...I squint, then recognize the three white petals.

"Katniss?" I ask, grinning and shaking my head.

"The one and only."

"Where the hell did it come from?"

"I had my brother get it. From the woods. I owe him big, now."

I stare at him. "Did you make this? With the flowers?"

"Yup." He smiles at the floor. "Open it."

I do, and the blank pages inside are some kind of thick, cloth-like paper, very sturdy. Anything written here will last a long time. Inside the front cover, something is written in black ink; I recognize Peeta's tiny, neat handwriting. I have to bring the book close and squint to see it.

_Katniss Grace_, it says.

I raise my head and he's right there, a breath away from my lips. "I love it. Thank you."

He nods. "It's for...songwriting. You know, if you want."

I nod slowly, closing the inches between us. "I want."

We crash together, the way we always do. It's heat and tongues and his warm hands on my hips, then my back and then my ass, pressing me back against the divider. I clutch the book in one hand and plunge my other hand into the hair at the back of his neck, losing myself in the feeling of this with a long moan.

He pushes me harder against the wall and I hook one ankle around his good leg; he sneaks a hand up underneath my shirt.

"Wait," I mumble, pulling away. His lips travel down past my chin, catching me just under my jaw, and I gasp. "Wait...wait."

"Why?" he breathes. His knuckles brush the underside of my breast. "We have time...a little bit."

"Just..." He caresses me underneath my shirt, and I bite my lip to stifle any sound I would have made. "Hold on. Okay?" He pulls back and regards me with the puppy-dog eyes; I throw my head back, laughing silently, and he kisses my throat again. "I have..." I gasp and gulp, then try again. "I have something for you, too."

He raises one eyebrow in what could only be called a leer, and I roll my eyes as I reach into my back pocket and pull out the letter.

It's amazing, how easy it is to hand it to him. After I've been agonizing over this for months.

It terrifies me, how easy this is.

He frowns, taking the paper and unfolding it, smoothing the creases it's acquired from its day in my pocket. I watch his face as he begins to read; his frown smooths into surprise as his eyes take in the words I have, by now, memorized.

_Dear Ms Everdeen_, he's reading. _We are pleased to welcome you to West Virginia State University as a transfer student for the 2013-2014 academic year. Your first year credits already earned from the University of Southern Maine will be fully applicable toward a bachelor's degree at our Charleston campus..._

Et cetera.

He finishes reading. When he looks up at me again, his expression is carefully blank, but his eyes give him away. The wild hope.

"You're...coming with me?"

I don't hesitate for an instant. "Yes." I take a deep breath and nod. "Yeah, I am. I, um...I just applied, on the off chance. You know." I shrug. He's just staring at me. He's starting to make me nervous, so I do what I always do when I'm nervous. I babble. "I mean, if...if you'll have me, I guess. I know it's a huge...I mean, I'd understand, if you didn't...want me to-"

He cuts me off with a crushing embrace; he's holding both me and the letter tightly. "If I'll have you?" His voice is shaking. "Katniss. Holy shit. I hated the thought of leaving you. This..." He kisses me then, hard and desperate. "This is all I could want," he says against my lips, and I close my eyes and just drink in this moment.

I want to freeze this moment.

"Are you sure..." He gulps, then frames my face with his two hands so I have to look at him. "Are you sure this is what _you_ want? You'd be leaving so much. Your home. And Prim? Have you thought about-"

"I've thought about everything." I take a deep breath, and lean up to kiss him softly. "For a long time. It's going to work out, for everyone up here. But for me? It's...I need this." I look into his eyes, willing him to understand. "I need you."

He shakes his head, slowly, but he's smiling, and his hand grips my free hand, strong, warm and steady. "I love you."

I know he means it.

I mean it, too. It's going to work out. Mom and Prim will keep each other sane and safe. Madge will get her chance with Gale. The school will go along just fine without the two of us.

And after a little while...or maybe a long while...I won't miss this place.

...

I have one more dream, before I leave.

I dream of a green meadow, dotted with dandelions, with the woods beyond. Shadowy figures jump and cavort in the grass, turning cartwheels, dancing, and chasing each other. I can't see them clearly: they are hazy, ethereal. Not quite real, yet.

But it's so warm, the dream. The sun on my shoulders is so warm, the breeze so fresh, the grass so green. The sensory pleasure is so immediate that it's a sin to wake.

But I do, because I know what's real.

...

Memorial Day weekend is a shitty time to pack up your car and move. Hamish tells us over and over that we're crazy to try it, that we'll get jammed up on the Maine Turnpike, and again on the Mass Pike, and again on 84 in New York. It will take us forever to drive all the way to West Virginia.

But that's what we're doing.

I kept the goodbyes to a minimum. It's not like I'll never be back.

I do okay as long as we're still in Maine, but I hold my breath that morning as we cross the Piscataqua River bridge; once we are on the other side, we will be in New Hampshire.

And then, we are.

I twist around in my seat as we leave my home state behind us; my hand finds Peeta's as the bridge retreats, growing smaller and smaller through the back window, barely visible through the boxes and laundry bags, poster tubes and guitar case, books and backpacks piled high. He squeezes my hand, and I lean in to plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth, the one that's slightly upturned.

I don't know what awaits me, down there. In that place that he's called home. I know there are problems to overcome, that it's not perfect and it never will be, that the obstacles are large enough to form a yawning gulf between us.

But somehow, they don't.

I feel the earth moving beneath me as we drive, my center of gravity shifting. Away from the people I've known and the place that's weighed me down with memories, toward something scary and wonderful and new. I feel a lightness in the very center of me, a weight lifting.

Or a weight _being_ lifted. Being shared. The gravity of the whole world, divided by two.

I keep my eyes on that bridge until it's out of sight, watching its lazy curve fade farther into the distance, its lights blending with other lights, the cold steel finally disappearing behind the gentle swell of the earth.

FIN

...

**A/N Thank you. Thank you all for coming on this journey with me. This grew to be so much more than I thought it was when I started writing. I can't believe how many faves/follows/reviews I've earned. I hope the ending is satisfying in some way. I hope this made you smile. I'm smiling right now. Please send feedback. More to come from me in the future, but for now...**

**Much love from, JW**


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